


something there (that wasn't there before)

by Sanna_Black_Slytherin



Series: Misc-ACE-llaneous Asexuality Fics [27]
Category: Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Asexual Erik, Background R/C in the beginning, Christine is the best, Dark at times because Erik, Erik Is Sassy, Erik Logic Is The Best Logic, Erik Sucks At Human, Erik is a Stalker, Erik is a control freak, Erik: Musical Prodigy Architect and Punjab Lasso Enthusiast, Fix-It of Sorts, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Madame Giry does damage control, Music, Nadir Did Not Sign Up For This, Philippe is a cinnamon roll, Post-Movie(s), Remy is not paid enough for this, Romance, Slow Build, Well more like Erik doesn't die
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-01-12
Updated: 2018-09-04
Packaged: 2019-03-03 22:51:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 31,630
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13351176
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sanna_Black_Slytherin/pseuds/Sanna_Black_Slytherin
Summary: When Raoul invited Erik to stay with him after the events at the Opera, he hadn’t expected to fall for the melodramatic sewer goblin.





	1. Erik Is An Overdramatic Dork

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Beauty & the Beast](https://archiveofourown.org/works/12574860) by [Hyx_Sydin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hyx_Sydin/pseuds/Hyx_Sydin). 



> This is technically a sequel to [Beauty & the Beast](http://archiveofourown.org/works/12574860). I recommend reading it—it's around 900 words—but in case you don't want to, here's a recap:
> 
> Raoul meets a sorceress. He's not a complete dick to her, and she promises to grant him one wish in the future. After the burning of the Opera, Raoul tells the sorceress to heal Erik from all sickness, injuries, scars, and his deformity. The drama queen in question shows up at Raoul's step and demands to be allowed to pay back his debt to Raoul.

_“Do you know anything about building plans?” Raoul asked unexpectedly._

_The other man stared at him a long moment before slowly nodding. “I do.”_

 

₪ ₪ ₪

 

Erik did not speak for a long time, as he perused the blueprints—though, in their pitiful state, they could scarcely be called that—of all nineteen levels of the Opera.

"You intend to restore it exactly as it was," he said eventually, not looking up from the drawings.

Raoul almost wished they he did; though Erik's eyes could hardly be said to be expressive, they might provide him with more clues as to Erik's opinion on the matter than his turned back.

Raoul realized that Erik expected an answer. Though it may have seemed to most people as though the Opera ghost was talking to himself, Raoul knew Erik well enough to be aware of the fact that Erik never spoke without intent, that his words never failed to have a point.

He nodded. "Yes. The management wished to, in that way, preserve its history."

Erik's posture shifted. He turned his head to look at Raoul. The expression on his face—so flawlessly chiselled!—was contemptuous. "It may well be the first good decision of the current management." He glanced back at the drawings. "I doubt that they had made it themselves."

Raoul grimaced. “There may have been a discussion between the management, the directors, the senior staff, and myself,” he admitted.

Erik did not reply. Raoul took this moment to observe him. It was the first time that they found themselves in close proximity without either harbouring homicidal intentions—or, at least, in Erik’s case, without going through with them, as Raoul was still uncertain as to Erik’s opinion of him.

Erik was a peculiar man. Even with his face healed—although it could not by any means be called normal now, either, seeing as it seemed to have swung from the epitome of ugliness to the other extreme, but that was neither here nor there—there was an intensity to him, a cloud that seemed to envelop him and warn others of the danger he posed. He practically exuded danger, and yet Raoul found that, after having been tortured and almost killed by the man, it would take more than a menacing posture for him to intimidate Raoul.

Erik studied the drawings with a focus that was usually reserved only for music or—Raoul winced at the unseemly reminder—Christine.

“Where are the electric lamps?” Erik’s voice broke the silence.

“There’s not going to _be_ any electric lamps,” Raoul told Erik.

Erik looked up. His dark eyes narrowed, and Raoul was reminded of the pair of yellow eyes that had once stared at him from across the darkness of his bedroom. "There _will_ be." Erik's voice brokered no argument. Another shiver, not unlike the one from an hour previous, ran through Raoul’s spine.

Raoul rolled his eyes. “And how do you propose to install them?” he snapped. “Never mind _get them to work_.”

“Let that be my concern, vicomte,” Erik said, his lips twisting into a mocking smile. His stormy eyes scanned the blueprints again. He pursed his lips. “These are woefully incomplete,” he remarked neutrally, though the dissatisfaction in his voice was evident.

Raoul found himself shrugging helplessly. “These were all the blueprints that we could find. Most of them were at the Opera which, might I add, _someone burned down_ ,” he added pointedly.

Erik’s eyes flashed with irritation. “Do not take that tone with me, fop,” he growled.

Raoul rolled his eyes. “Don’t _call_ me that,” he told Erik, who smirked.

“Why should I not?” the man parried, his eyes glinting. “It is accurate.”

“It’s not,” Raoul pressed. “I’m not”—he searched for words—“like that,” he finished finally.

“Like what?” Erik parroted derisively. “You are a nobleman.”

“I don’t behave like the rest of them,” Raoul objected. “Don’t group me with them.”

Erik tilted his head. “It is true that you are quite different from them,” he conceded. “Most people, especially of your standing, would not have done for me what you have, especially not after what I have put you through. You may not be _quite_ as fatuous as the rest of your ilk,” Erik offered at last.

Raoul smiled. Erik’s words felt like a victory, although he couldn’t quite pinpoint why.

 

₪ ₪ ₪

 

That night, Raoul was startled awake from a dream, only to find two yellow eyes staring at him in the darkness. He was struck by a feeling of déjà vu. His mind was thrust back to that night, perhaps not so long ago after all, where he had awoken only to find himself in the presence of a being neither man nor ghost, when he had held up a gun and aimed it at a spot just above the eyes and _fired_. He recalled the fuss that his servants had thrown up when Raoul had found blood on the balcony.

The difference was that this time, Raoul knew exactly to whom the eyes belonged.

“ _Monsieur_ _Erik_ ,” he said with as much dignity as he could muster after being woken up so abruptly, taking great care to emphasize the man’s name, “get out of my room.”

The eyes blinked. They did not disappear.

Raoul heaved a sigh. “Please, Erik. Allow me my privacy.”

The stare, all but gleaming against the dark background, persisted.

Raoul let his head fall back onto his pillow with a loud groan. He closed his eyes, letting out a breath. He would have been surprised at the sheer nerve the man had, invading his personal space even after Raoul had taken him in, had healed him, had shown him kindness despite knowing that he did not have to, that no one would have blamed him if he hadn’t.

At least the melodramatic sewer goblin wasn’t making death threats. Thank God for small miracles.

The eyes then became preternaturally still, neither blinking nor moving. Was this what Christine had had to deal with for well over three months? This was a blatant invasion of privacy. Unfortunately, the ghost—for right now, he really seemed like a ghost, or mayhap a phantom of the dark—did not seem to understand the concept.

Raoul decided to ignore the two yellow dots in the darkness. With any luck, the man would grow bored and disappear before long, if Raoul did not pay him any attention.

 

₪ ₪ ₪

 

In the morning, there was a single dark pink rose on his bed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been trying to balance out Erik's special brand of insanity with something that seems human, but I'm not sure how it turned out.
> 
> I welcome any and all feedback!


	2. The Interesting Case Of The Disappearing Papers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Opera blueprints disappear overnight. Raoul has a culprit in mind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A little more info:
> 
> This is an amalgamation of Leroux and musical/movie, because there’s _no fucking way_ I’m writing pure Leroux!Raoul because that guy is creepier than Erik and more socially incompetent than Marius Pontmercy. As a result, we also have the Persian and the shade and whatnot from Leroux, and musical!Madame Giry. Also, Philippe, because he’s a cinnamon roll.
> 
> The events are mostly from the musical/movie, but a few details here and there from Leroux have snuck in.
> 
> My defense of the Erik/Raoul pairing is that Christine should be with someone sane, not either of these lunatics who truly deserve each other.

Raoul had matters—not quite urgent, but he had put it off for longer than strictly appropriate—to attend to the following morning. He left the estate in the early hours of the morning, telling his butler that he would be gone until midday. The butler accepted this with a silent nod.

When Raoul, having finished his business, returned to the drawing room that afternoon, he was understandably upset to learn that the Opera blueprints had disappeared overnight.

There was already a crowd gathered around the table where the drawings had been, and it was steadily growing. Raoul pushed his way through it, needing to ascertain for himself that the sketches were indeed gone.

There was nothing but empty space where the papers had previously been.

Raoul drew his lips into a thin line, for he had a sneaking suspicion as to their current whereabouts.

Ignoring various shouts of outrage and indignation, Raoul made his way through the growing crowd gathering around the table. He made the trek Erik's room, finally coming to a stop before the door that he knew his ghost to hide behind.

“It has come to my attention,” he began in as casual a voice as he could muster, “that a certain set of plans had disappeared. You would not know anything about it, of course?” he asked pointedly.

He heard the shuffling of papers from the other side of the door, and fought the urge to roll his eyes. The man was not even _trying_ to be subtle about it! It was infuriating; whenever Raoul wished to be able to see him, to speak to him, it was as though the man became invisible, gaining the ability to move through walls, even though Raoul was certain that there were no secret passages on the estate; then, the moment it would be prudent of him to keep his silence and feign innocence, the man could not be plainer about his actions.

Then again, Erik had always been peculiar. And impulsive. It would do well for Raoul to remember that.

Raoul tried the handle. To his surprise, the door was unlocked. It swung open, admitting Raoul to the room which he had had set up for Erik. It was shrouded in darkness, with curtains drawn, nothing but candles there to provide light.

It seemed that, while the sorceress rid Erik of his deformity, she did nothing for his keen eyesight. Then again, Raoul reflected, it was hardly a _fault_ , nothing that merited removal.

Raoul peered into the room. The light from the candles lit up the profile of Erik’s face as he was hunched over the papers, frantically scribbling something in the margins one moment, only to stop and consider it the next with the care reserved for building houses from cards.

Raoul slipped into the room, closing the door behind him. There was no reason for anyone else to find out about Erik’s presence here—at least, not quite _yet_. When they did, Raoul wanted it to be in a controlled environment, so that he could eliminate as many unknowns as possible. Erik managed to be more than enough of an unknown all by himself.

Raoul took the few remaining steps, bridging the distance between himself and Erik. He positioned himself slightly to Erik’s left, and placed a hand on his hip.

“While I appreciate the fervour with which you have decided to undertake this task, you cannot simply steal the sketches,” Raoul told Erik, who did not so much as twitch. So he _had_ heard Raoul approach, then. One of these days, Raoul promised himself, he would be able to sneak up on the man.

“They have no use of them,” Erik said flippantly, not looking up.

“Still, that is hardly an excuse to steal them.”

“I did not steal them. I temporarily relocated them to a location that would be better suited for their continuous development.”

“Most people call that stealing, Monsieur Erik.”

Raoul peered over Erik’s shoulder in curiosity, trying to see what the man was adding to the drawings, but it was hard to read Erik’s gibberish handwriting at the best of times, let alone when it was topsy-turvy. Erik stiffened at the close proximity, but, to Raoul’s surprise, he let Raoul look.

“What is _that_?” Raoul asked as he pointed at a symbol whose meaning he could not decipher.

 “Electric heating. It would do the Opera some good,” Erik muttered.

 “Isn’t it enough with the electric lamps?” Raoul exclaimed, throwing his hands up into the air.

Erik observed him quietly. “No, fop,” he said in a mocking tone, then, ignoring Raoul’s protests, returned to the drawings.

Raoul dragged a hand through his hair. He thought about arguing with Erik, but all of his energy had been expended in the morning meetings. He’d simply figure out a way to make Erik return the papers at the end of the day, because he really didn’t feel up to explaining to the managers just why the blueprints for the renovated opera house had up and disappeared.

Raoul tilted his head, examining Erik in silence. There was a spark in Erik’s eyes as he was studying down at the papers. Raoul could not fight the smile that it prompted.

It was good, he decided, that something besides murder and violence could hold Erik’s interest for long.

A heavy feeling settled in his stomach as he was forcibly reminded of Erik's violent tendencies. He wondered at what Erik’s reaction would be to being told that he had to return the drawings.

“We need to talk,” Raoul said finally. When Erik gave no indication of having heard him, he coughed loudly. “Erik, please look at me.”

Erik’s eyes flickered up to him, disinterest evident in them. He did not speak, but tilted his head to show that he was listening.

Raoul took a calming breath before resuming. “As long as you are my guest, you will not harm any other occupants of this estate,” he warned.

Erik narrowed his eyes, but did not speak. He was silent for a moment as he considered Raoul’s words. Raoul could only hope that it was a good sign.

“As long as they do not get in my way or bother me with superfluous barrages of questions, I will not lay a hand on them,” Erik said at last. “If they do, however,”—his nostrils flared—“I can make no promises.”

Raoul sighed, recognizing that this was the closest thing to a promise that he was going to get out of the Opera ghost.

He took another step towards Erik, stopping when Erik’s posture grew unnaturally stiff.

“Relax,” he said. “I have no intention of harming you. I take my obligations to my guests seriously, and it would make me a horrible host indeed if I harmed one of those whom I had offered protection.” He tried to offer Erik a smile, but was met with a carefully neutral expression.

“I suppose that you will now say that you are not affected by my past?” the black-clad man retorted derisively. “You would, of course; you noble being, so pure of heart!” He scoffed. “Forgiving an abominable monster is hardly difficult for men such as you, is it?”

Raoul took a steadying breath. He tried to ignore the contumelies that the other man insisted on hurling at him.

“I know that your crimes are numerous,” he began, “but, while I cannot condone them, you had your reasons. However,”—here, Raoul’s voice dropped a few octaves—“these reasons stop _now_.”

There was an amused smirk on Erik’s face. “And why should I comply with that?” he countered. He sounded almost as though he was testing Raoul.

“Because you are a guest in my house,” Raoul said simply, hoping that that would be the end of their discussion.

Of course, in complete contrast to Raoul’s expectations, Erik’s expression instead grew thunderous, a sharp contrast to the mirth displayed only seconds previous. “And _you_ had been in _my_ theatre for months, without complying with _my_ wishes,” he retorted scathingly.

At Erik’s words, Raoul’s eyes flashed with thinly-veiled annoyance. How _dare_ he treat Raoul like an _invader_ , when it was _him_ who had invaded his life, and Christine’s life, and threatened dozens, if not _hundreds_ , of others—! Erik had _no right_ to lord anything over Raoul. He lost that right when he abducted Christine and held her in the dungeons against her will. “I will not apologize for keeping my fiancée”—at the mention of Christine, Erik’s posture stiffened further still—“safe from you,” Raoul said through gritted teeth.

Erik’s grip on the quill he had been holding tightened, and Raoul half-expected it to snap. It did no such thing, although the loss of a quill would have been worth seeing Erik’s fingers, so delicate and well-taken-care-of, spattered with ink.

“I was no threat to Christine,” he snarled.

“Your actions would beg to differ,” Raoul shot back. “You say that you did not intend to harm her, and yet you caused her pain with every step, without even realizing it!” It was his turn to clench his hands into fists.

He abruptly realized what he was doing, and forced himself to relax. _No_ , Raoul told himself. He wasn’t going to play Erik’s game. He was better than this.

He took a deep breath to compose himself.

“Monsieur Erik—“ Raoul trailed off as he realized that he did not know Erik’s last name. “I do not believe that I know your full name.” He aimed the words, more statement than question, at Erik, who scowled at him.

“Nor will you,” he told Raoul. “And I do not appreciate you changing the topic.”

“Well, what else do you want me to say?” Raoul asked, desperation beginning to creep into his voice. “I am hardly going to try to convince you of anything—you are more stubborn than a bull! But you can see for yourself that Christine did not choose you. She chose _me_.” He could not keep a note of smugness from his voice as he said so. “You need to accept that, for no matter how much you deny it, it will not change the fact that this is how things are, and even your pretty face will not change anything. In the end, she chose me because of my _character_ , not my looks. Do you recall her words? ‘It is in your soul that the true distortion lies’,” Raoul echoed Christine’s words, even though he was certain that they had been etched into Erik’s mind forever. They certainly have been into Raoul’s.

The quill was dangerously close to being snapped in half. “What do you hope to gain from telling me this?” Erik’s voice was now calm once again. That did nothing to reassure Raoul; if anything, it accomplished the opposite. This was a man capable of great deception, Raoul was forced to remind himself. “Do you hope to make me realize that ‘I need to change’?” There was contempt in Erik’s voice.

Raoul’s silence spoke for itself.

Erik scowled. “In that case, you are being naïve, little vicomte.”

“Raoul,” Raoul prompted him. “And if you wish to remain in Christine’s good graces—no, I do not mean that you should court her, but surely you wish to retain your friendship?—you need to change.”

Erik’s mouth thinned wordlessly. “I will think about it,” was all he said. He returned his attention to the papers, clearly expecting Raoul to make himself scarce now that he had said his part.

Raoul stood his ground though. “You need to return the papers tonight,” he reminded Erik, patently ignoring Erik’s scowl at the words. Funny how quickly one could get used to things like these. “And you need to promise me not to harm anyone living under this roof,” he added.

Erik flexed his hand. The movement made the black ring on his pinkie glint in the candlelight. Raoul recognized it as the ring he had tried to give Christine as their wedding ring, and fought a shiver.

“Will it make you leave me alone?” Erik asked at length.

Raoul stifled a satisfied smile. “Yes,” he honestly said.

Erik waved a dismissive hand. “Then yes. I do solemnly swear not to do harm unto the residents of the de Chagny estate for so long as they do not harm me first, or are unusually vexing.”

Raoul rolled his eyes. “Close enough. If you don’t return the blueprints to their rightful place by nightfall, I will do it myself.”

 

₪ ₪ ₪

 

The plans were not, in fact, back by nightfall.

Raoul did, however, find a note on his pillow in distinctive scratchy handwriting.

 

_To the Vicomte de Chagny,_

_The plans in the hands of those fools would have been in disrepair by now. ‘Tis better for everyone that they stay with me._

_Your Most Humble and Obedient Servant,_

_ERIK_

 

Raoul collapsed onto his bed, the note crumbling in his hand. So much for hoping for a peaceful night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Opinions?


	3. Christine Reaches Her Erik Limit

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Raoul had delayed telling Christine for as long as he could, but he could not delay it forever.

Raoul had delayed telling Christine for as long as he could, a luxury he could afford mainly because the ghost had so far been content to stay in his room and focus on his work, avoiding human interaction. Raoul doubted, however, that it would stay this case forever. Sooner or later—sooner, knowing the infuriating man—Erik was going to venture outside, and, no doubt, shock the people familiar with him, as well as the people who cared to remember the normal part of the face of the ghost that Christine had unmasked during that performance only a few days ago. He doubted that many did—people’s focus tended to shift to the deformity, he hypothesized based on personal experience—but still, some would inevitably remember.

Raoul did not know what he would do then. In all honesty, he did not know what he was doing, even now, playing host to a man who had, only a week before, tried his best to murder him.

It had been easy to avoid telling Christine, as she still lived with her adoptive mother and benefactress, Madame Valerius, and she did not spend all of her time at Raoul’s estate. Still, she would stumble upon Erik sooner or later, and she would undoubtedly recognize him, be it by his voice or his face—assuming that Erik would not act first, of course.

Although not the entire cast had lived in the dormitories in the opera, enough did that, when the theatre burned down, the social life of the opera staff had relocated to the de Chagny estate, since Raoul had extended a standing invitation for the people now finding themselves without a roof over their heads. As a result, most of the ballet dancers, as well as quite a few of the members of the chorus and stagehands found themselves living under the same house, and the staff members who did not still visited frequently. (In all honesty, Raoul did not think that the house had seen so much human interaction since the parties that his mother used to be famous for.) Christine, for example, made a point to visit every day, when she would practice her voice under the watchful eye of M. Reyer—yes, Christine would continue her music lessons, for an unspoken agreement had been reached by all parties that nobody would stop their training simply because they had no opera to perform in. There would eventually be an opera, of that everyone was sure, and nobody wanted to be out of practice when that day came.

After that, Christine would either watch Meg Giry during the ballet practice, or she would spend the rest of the day talking to Raoul.

Raoul sighed. He could not delay it forever.

Raoul was able to catch Christine during her next visit to the estate. “Christine?” he said quietly. “I need to talk to you.”

“Raoul?” Christine asked in confusion. “What is it?”

Raoul shook his head. “Not here. Follow me.”

Raoul led Christine down into the private sitting room adjacent to his bedroom, one of the few places left where he could be afforded some privacy. After the destruction of the opera, Raoul’s estate became a little crowded with its new inhabitants; though by no means operating at full capacity, there were still many more individuals at his house than Raoul was used to.

And then there was Erik. Though he had only been there for less than a day, his presence was already hanging over the house like an ominous could, a cloud only Raoul himself could feel.

Raoul let the door close behind them, then, more for his own state of mind than because it would actually prevent anyone—or one person in particular—from eavesdropping, locked the door.

Christine was staring at him with concern. “Raoul, what is it?”

Raoul sighed. He did not meet her eyes. How could he? What he was about to tell her was cruel. More than that, it felt too much like a betrayal.

A moment passed by, then two, and still Raoul did not speak.

She reached out to him. Her fingers, slighter than his, curled around his hands. “Raoul, you're worrying me.”

“I need to tell you something,” Raoul began, “but I admit that I fear your reaction.”

Christine furrowed her eyebrows. “What is it, Raoul?” When he remained silent, she squeezed his hands. “Raoul, just tell me. I promise not to react badly.”

Raoul chuckled darkly. “I would not make that promise if I were you,” he warned. “Very well.”

Reluctantly at first, Raoul launched into the story of how he had met an old woman once, and offered her shelter, only to find out that she was a sorceress. He went on, telling her about the wish that he was promised and how, when the time came, he knew exactly what he wanted.

In the end, Erik was but a man, and every man deserved happiness.

Christine’s hands flew up to her mouth. “Oh, Raoul…!” she exclaimed with a gasp. “You are too kind.”

Raoul’s lips contorted into a bitter expression. “You would have done the same thing, Christine,” he reminded her.

She offered him a consoling smile. “I am different, and you know it. Erik and I—we had a certain bond that…” Christine trailed off, shrugging helplessly, as if unable to put her thoughts into words.

“But that is neither here nor there. Raoul, please continue.”

Raoul shot Christine another dubious glare, as if informing her that he did not buy her excuses, but, when he got no reaction out of her, continued with his story. He told her how he was convinced that, despite the sorceress’ magic, he believed that Erik’s chances of survival, of getting out of the opera, were low.

His story was once again interrupted by Christine, who now began to murmur “Poor, unhappy Erik,” over and over again, as though trying to absolve him of all of his crimes.

Raoul did not agree with the sentiment; for all that Erik’s looks _had_ been a source of pity—and Raoul did pity him, for he had sent the sorceress to heal him so that he could lead a normal life—they did not give him the right an unchecked reign of violence. _An eye for an eye,_ Raoul thought, _would leave the world blind._

Sighing, he picked up the story. He told Christine of how Gerald told him that he had a visitor, and how he came to discover that Erik had not only survived, but had also made his way to the de Chagny estate and all bur barged in, demanding to be of help in order to repay the perceived debt to Raoul.

“Although I do not understand him,” Raoul admitted at length. “Why come back here when he could be anywhere, where he could make a living without seeing people who despised him every day?”

Christine let out a dark snort. “It is _because_ we are here that he is here,” she told Raoul.

Raoul blinked. “Christine, I’m afraid that I do not follow.”

Christine smiled. “No, of course you don’t. You wouldn’t,” she said. “He told me…” She sniffed. “He told me that all he wanted to be was ‘like everyone else’. But alas! his looks were too unforgivable, too hideous for the rest of the human race. All of his life, he had to hide. Without his deformity, with his genius and his charisma, he could have been one of the most distinguished in history of mankind—inventor, musician, genius! But he had to hide his genius, or else, use it to blackmail people to cooperate with him. His heart could have done things greater than you or I could imagine, but, in the end, he had to content himself with a cellar. And now—now that he is free of the curse he had lived under his whole life—all he wants is a familiar element, and that is us.”

Raoul swallowed at her words. He did not like the sound of them. Christine still sounded—

“In love,” he said, perturbed by the realization. “You are still in love with him.”

Christine started at his words. Her eyes widened. “What? No! Yes! I don’t know!” she burst out in quick succession. She put her face in her hands. “Is a woman not allowed to pity a man without sounding in love?” she asked rhetorically.

“One might,” Raoul allowed, “if she had not confessed her love for the man a second previous.” His words were tainted by bitterness. ~~~~

Christine let her fingers roam over Raoul’s hands, tracing patterns visible only to herself. Raoul felt himself gradually relax under her touch.

“Raoul, love,” Christine said kindly, “I chose you. Remember?”

Of course he remembered it. How could he not?

“But,” Christine went on, “that does not prevent me from feeling pity for Erik. Tell me”—her voice changed abruptly—“where is he?”

Raoul finally put his hand atop Christine’s, stilling the movements of her fingers. “In the left guest room on the third floor,” he told her. As she made to stand up, he stopped her. “Christine?” She glanced down at him. “Be careful, please. I do not quite understand what ulterior motives he has for being here.”

 

₪ ₪ ₪

 

Erik heard footsteps in the hallway, followed by the sound of the door opening. He did not reveal that he had heard the sound, instead continuing to analyse the blueprints for details which the men drawing them might have missed. Yes, Garnier might have received the credit for having designed the opera, but Erik knew better than anyone what secrets it had hidden, and he intended to re-create every one of them.

The last time, he had been able to get away with not including them in the official sketches, but it seemed that it was not to be the case this time. Granted, he could try, but he doubted that they would allow him anywhere near the opera once the reconstructions would begin—that was, assuming that the vicomte would not evict him before them. It was far less troublesome to do things this way.

Besides, he was hardly about to reveal all of his secrets. No, Erik thought, his mind wandering to the chamber made of glass, with a single iron tree in the corner, it was better for some things to remain between Erik and the darkness underneath the opera.

The footsteps approached. His breath hitched when he heard an oh-so-familiar voice.

“Erik?”

Erik very carefully did not move, did not turn around, did not face Christine, even though every instinct was screaming for him to do so. He had tried to approach her; it hadn’t worked. Let her approach him.

Christine put a hand on his shoulder, almost as if she needed to ascertain that he was really there, in the flesh. At the moment when her skin came into contact with the black cloth, she seemed to awaken from her trance, and drew back her hand as though burned. Erik flinched almost imperceptibly. His nails scraped against his palm—a nervous habit he had picked up during his work for a marquis in Nice and had never quite succeeded in unlearning.

“Christine.”

He said her name with reverence, the way one would utter a prayer. His voice, though soft, echoed in the still room.

“Erik,” she spoke again, this time with more confidence. “I thought you dead.”

A dark chuckle escaped Erik’s lips before he had a chance to stop it. “No,” he said, standing up. “No, I am quite alive. Tell me,” he asked lightly, the nails digging deeper into his skin. He was yearning to see her again, even if only one more time. He did not turn around. “Did your _fiancé_ ”—Erik grimaced at the word—“tell you what _generosity_ he had seen fit to bestow upon me?”

Christine was silent for a moment. “If by generosity, you mean the wish that he had given away,” she said finally, “then yes, he told me. Erik…” She hesitated, then, “Let me see you.”

Erik scoffed. “What happened to the idea that it was not my looks but my character that made me odious?” he mocked her.

“Erik. _Please_.”

He turned around then, the fabric of his cloak making a soft swishing sound as it unexpectedly moved through the air.

He took in her stunned expression at seeing his face, his healed and normal and _unblemished_ face, let her process what she was seeing.

 _Yes, Christine,_ he thought, _let it sink it. Let it sink in just what you have chosen to throw away._

“Well?” Erik taunted when she did not speak. “Am I still so despicable? Is it truly in my soul that the true distortion lies?” he mocked, throwing Christine’s words back at her. “Or was it simply that my appearance was so odious, so disgusting, that you had to think of an excuse— _any_ excuse—to reject me and keep your reputation as a pure and open-minded woman?”

_Am I such a different person now that I no longer look the part of the monster you all take me for?_

Christine shook her head. “You are no different to me now than you were then. Maybe not in looks, no,” she conceded when Erik’s eyes narrowed in rage, thinking her a liar, “but in soul, you are the same man whom I left in the cellars of the opera house.”

Christine was staring resolutely at him, although her eyes kept flickering back to the right side of his face. Erik wanted to laugh—of course she had been lying! to his face, no less!; of course his looks had mattered to her!

Well, well, well. It seemed that not even Christine Daaé, charming and compassionate though she was, was above judging Erik for his looks.

Erik’s eyes flashed with ire. “You lie. This”—he pointed at his face—“this matters to you. Of course it does—don’t lie to Erik! You promised that you wouldn’t lie to Erik!” Something akin to hysteria flashed in his eyes, but it vanished as soon as it had appeared.

“I’m not _lying_!” Christine protested. “You simply refuse to face the fact that it was your behaviour, rather than your looks, that drove me away.”

“It didn’t though, did it?” Erik countered. “You are here.”

“I wanted to ascertain that you were unhurt!” Christine was fuming.

“No, no, no. Your body may belong to the vicomte,” Erik said cruelly, “but your soul and your voice belongs to me still.”

Christine’s eyes flashed with irritation. “I do not belong to anyone but myself,” she retorted. “My life is my own, as are my decisions.”

“ _I_ am the reason you are here! _I gave you your music_! I made you the person you are today!” Erik hissed.

“That does not mean that you own me!” Christine shouted heatedly.

It was as if she had physically struck him. He flinched away from her. His eyes settled on the papers in front of him. He could not bear to look at her anymore; with every word out of her mouth, she reminded him of his failure.

It was clear to him that he could not make her love him, and any affection forced out of her would be a false one. Erik did not want to accept it, but he owed her that much, to her who had shown compassion and kindness to him when others did not.

His feelings for Christine have not changed, but perhaps he needed to change his approach. He could not force her to love him. While he saw no reason for personal honour, he had experienced heartache from her already. When she would come to him, she would do so of her own accord. He had to trust that she would see the error of her ways. For once, the vicomte was correct: Erik could not win Christine's love by making her his prisoner.

If she didn't… Well.

Erik had promised her to let her go, had allowed her to choose Raoul over him. He didn’t care much for promises—God knew that people always broke their promise not to be affected by his face, not to think differently of him once they saw his true visage—but he's had much time and little to do since his home had been invaded by the mob, and he had since come to terms with the possibility, although very slight, in Erik's mind, that Christine would never be truly happy with him—and if there was one thing he wanted above all, it was Christine’s happiness.

He did not want to let her go, but if he had to, he would.

It would be the hardest thing he would ever have to do, but he would do it.

A single tear was trailing down his cheek. Despite himself, he marvelled at the sensation. It was so alien a sensation; it had been many years since he had last cried without a mask. He could not recall when he had least felt the wetness of a tear streaming down his cheek.

He did nothing to hinder its descent.

Why was he torturing himself with her sight? Why even stay there, when he could so easily move to Nadir’s house? He doubted that the daroga would refuse him.

The answer was, once again, because he needed a reminder of his failure, and because he was regrettably indebted to the little vicomte. It was also the reason he was not pursuing her still. She had made her choice, and although Erik knew that she had made the wrong one, Christine still needed to realize that herself.

He let go of her hand. His eyes settled on the mantelpiece. It infuriated him to no end that he could not tell whether it was an authentic reaction to Christine’s words or whether the fifty or so years of emotional repression were finally catching up with him.

Erik’s shoulders slumped. He did not look at her as he asked, “Would you like me to leave the house?” The words, as bitter as liquorice, slipped out of his mouth before he could stop them.

Christine shook her head. “No, Erik. You misunderstand me. I do not—“ She paused. “I do not want you out of my life—quite the opposite, in fact!” She tried a small smile, but it fell flat. “I very much wish you to remain in my life, Erik. I simply—although I love you still, I cannot love you as you would love me. I love Raoul”— _more than I love you_ , she did not say—“and I will be happy with him.”

Erik closed his eyes. He exhaled. “Very well,” he suddenly snarled, his mood shifting in the blink of an eye. “Go back to that miserable puppy of a fop.” _You have done enough damage. You broke my heart and violated my trust._

Christine reached out to him again, but this time, it was Erik who sidestepped her touch.

“Do not,” he told her brusquely, “comfort me. Leave.”

“Erik—“

“Leave!” Erik practically screamed.

Christine fled.


	4. Homoeroticism What Homoeroticism

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Creepy Erik is creepy, and Raoul is beginning to reconsider the wisdom of letting an unstable madman loose in his house.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Good morning. Or good day, or good evening. Or, I suppose, good middle of the night. Like, say, 3 AM. Theoretically.
> 
> Whichever it is, I hope that you will enjoy this chapter :)

Raoul was ashamed to admit that he had been eavesdropping on Christine’s conversation with Erik. It was not a question of his lack of trust in Christine, or her womanly wiles, but, well—

Raoul may have taken in Erik, but he certainly did not trust him around his fiancée. The events in the Phantom’s lair were still fresh on his mind. Forgive, maybe, but never forget—although Raoul was not certain that he had even done the former.

He started when he heard the shouting, which was quickly followed by the opening of the door. Christine ran as though the devil himself were chasing her. She did not appear to notice Raoul next to the now open doorway.

Raoul debated going after her, but decided against it. When Christine was in one of her moods, he had learned, it was better to leave her to cool off for a few hours. In her current state, she was as likely to snap at him as she was to listen to him, and she would certainly not appreciate him hanging over her like a wretched excuse for a man. Raoul promised himself that he would not behave like the Phantom—Christine would be allowed as much freedom as her heart desired.

Besides, Raoul reasoned with himself, Christine had Meg there to comfort her, even if she would not tell her friend the source of her anguish.

Erik had no one.

His mind made up, Raoul stood up to enter the room, but before he could so much as step inside it, a hand grabbed the front of his coat and dragged him inside.

“Well?!” Erik’s voice was impossibly close. “ _Are you happy_ , now that you have confirmed the fidelity of your fiancée?! For that was the purpose of her visit here, was it not?! To see whether I could _tempt_ her into leaving you?!”

Raoul winced, as much at Erik’s tone as at his words. The words, hissed straight into his ear, were beginning to give Raoul a headache, and Erik’s proximity was not making things better.

“I did no such thing,” he refuted. “I told Christine of you because I had no right to keep your continued presence here from her, and she met with you of her own choice.” If it had been up to Raoul, Christine would never go within two meters of this man who had kidnapped her, locked her up, and pretended to be her deceased father, but Christine was capable of making her own decisions regarding Erik.

“And you, little vicomte?” Erik’s voice came from behind Raoul. “Why have you not chased your beautiful bride? Why have you remained here? To mock me?” The voice was back in his ear, and Raoul could have sworn that, for but a moment, he felt Erik’s warm breath on his neck. “To remind me of what I cannot have?” There was derision in his voice, intermixed with anger and… sorrow? _Sorrow_?

Raoul shook his head. “No,” he said curtly. “Not everything is about _you_ , Erik.”

Erik scoffed. “Somehow, I find this particular statement dubious, particularly when it concerns this specific situation. If not me, what is it about?”

“This is about Christine,” Raoul told him. “She is in need of closure when it concerns you.”

“She does not wish to end her acquaintance with me,” Erik barked. “She told me so herself.”

Raoul sighed. Unfortunately, that much was true. _Christine is capable of making her own choices_ , he repeated to himself.

“I heard,” he said noncommittally.

“So you _were_ eavesdropping,” Erik cried gleefully.

“You know,” he began conversationally, “you have tried to kill me on numerous occasions. Most people would say that I am crazy to have extended my hospitality to you.”

Erik hummed. Raoul heard the rustle of the fabric behind him, before a hand suddenly wrapped itself around his throat, cutting off his air supply. Raoul gasped for breath, even as the rabidly-dwindling rational part of his brain informed him that the ghost—that _Erik_ —wasn’t holding him all that tightly, that it could have been worse.

“They would be right,” Erik whispered into his ear. Something in his sent shivers down Raoul’s spine. “I can kill you, even now.”

Raoul could not reply, did not have enough control over his throat to do so. He tried to struggle against Erik’s hold, but it was as if the hand gripping him was made of steel.

“I could leave your corpse here for someone to find,” Erik went on, speaking as casually as if he were discussing the weather. “Maybe Antoinette. She would recognize the signs. Or Christine.” He chuckled.

Just as Raoul’s eyes began to cloud with the darkness that indicated rapidly approaching asphyxiation, Erik let go of Raoul’s throat.

Raoul fell to the floor, gasping for breath as he was cradling his throat like he was trying to protect it against further assaults, even though he knew that should Erik change his mind regarding keeping Raoul alive, he would not have much trouble overcoming Raoul’s struggles. He was easily twice as strong as Raoul, and in Raoul’s current state, he would not have been able to put up much of a fight.

Raoul twitched when he suddenly felt hands on his shoulders, but another whisper in his ear told him to relax. “I could crush you like a bug,” Erik said as his hands began to massage Raoul’s tense shoulders, “but I will not. I owe you, after all, little vicomte.”

“Raoul,” Raoul reminded him. He was trying not to relax under Erik’s touch, reminded himself that Erik was dangerous, that he had tried to kill him _just now_ , but his body seemed reluctant to cooperate.

Erik’s skilled hands were playing Raoul like the many other instruments he was so well-versed in. It was fitting, then, that he would have known how to play Raoul like a well-tuned fiddle. His hands seemed to know exactly draw the tension out of his bones.

“Thank you,” Raoul said quietly into the silence.

“We are alone, little fop,” Erik said brusquely. His fingers did not stop. “There is no need to feign kindness. I am here as your architect because I am indebted to you. You need not be _compassionate_ ”—his face scrunched up into a grimace—“out of some moral obligation to me. God knows I do not feel the same.”

“Erik, I am simply trying to—“

“I have been able to live my life without a scrap of kindness from anyone when I had a face so abominable that my own mother would not bear to look at it. I dare say that I will be quite alright now that…” He trailed off. “Now.”

Raoul rolled his eyes. “I am not being kind towards you out of some sort of misplaced sense of duty,” he told Erik. “I am being kind because everyone deserves kindness in their lives.”

Erik had no response to that; or, if he did, he did not share it with Raoul.

Erik’s fingers worked in silence as Raoul tried to come up with something to say that would not fracture the fragile truce they have managed to establish, but the man’s stoic silence, as quiet as a marble statue, was not making things easy.

“She speaks of you often, you know,” Raoul tried again.

He didn’t know why he did—there had been nothing to even suggest the topic; and yet, he found the words tumbling out of his mouth before he could stop them.

The fingers ceased their movement, but their owner did not speak.

“She does,” Raoul continued. “Sometimes in praise; often in horror.”

“Is this supposed to be reassurance?” Erik finally asked. His hands pressed into Raoul’s shoulders—not painfully, no, but very close to it. “Or torment? Do you enjoy tormenting me so?”

Raoul shook his head. “No. I just thought that you deserved to know,” he explained. A thought occurred to him. He cleared his throat. “If I may ask…” he began carefully. “What _is_ Christine to you?”

"She is my muse and my very soul," Erik said simply. His fingers began working at a knot in Raoul’s shoulders.

Raoul let out a hiss when Erik’s hands pressed into his shoulders just a little too tight.

Erik clucked his tongue in disapproval. “Little vicomte, you must relax.”

“Raoul,” Raoul reminded him.

Erik leaned down again. This time, his voice was soothing when he whispered into his ear. “Will you relax if I call you that?” His breath tickled Raoul’s neck.

Raoul shivered. He nodded, suddenly not trusting his voice not to crack was he to try to speak, and he could not bear to humiliate himself in Erik’s eyes. The man—the same man who had called himself the lowliest of men!—already thought him unworthy of Christine’s affections. There was no need to add to that.

“Very well, _Raoul_.”

Raoul was surprised at how much he liked hearing his name in Erik’s voice. He suddenly became aware of Erik’s proximity to him, and was dismayed at how little he minded. This was the same man who tried to terminate his life on several occasions.

Maybe his brother was right all along: Raoul had no survival instinct to speak of.

The thought of his brother caused a knot to form to his stomach. This very morning, he had received a short missive from him informing him that Philippe had heard about the disaster that befell the opera house, and was making his way back to Paris.

_Oh, Philippe._

Raoul would not admit it, but his feelings about Philippe’s arrival were ambivalent. On one hand, this was his brother; the man who had raised Raoul since his early childhood, had been the father figure that Raoul had so desperately needed, had tended to his every need, had made sure that Raoul never found himself lacking, had doted on him endlessly. He loved Raoul more than life itself, and Raoul loved Philippe in return.

On the other hand, Raoul feared Philippe’s reaction to Erik’s presence. It was bad enough that his brother already did not approve of Raoul’s relationship with Christine—how would he react to the presence of a man who had actively been trying to kill Raoul?

Philippe’s approval meant the world to Raoul, an approval which Erik was unlikely to receive. Granted, Raoul would not evict Erik simply because Philippe was dissatisfied with his presence—it was Raoul’s home just as much as it was Philippe’s, and a title did not give Philippe the right to evict Raoul’s guests without so much as a say-so—but Raoul had always shied away from doing things that he knew would not meet with Philippe’s approval.

He sighed as he considered how he would explain the entire situation to Philippe, but no matter how he worded it, he either made himself sound like a fool or an imbecile.

Erik’s fingers stopped just shy of Raoul’s neck, then dropped away. “What’s troubling your pretty little head?”

Raoul forced himself to ignore the taunt. “My brother,” he told Erik. He figured that there was no use hiding it, especially since the man in question would no doubt show up within the week.

Erik had the gall to quirk an eyebrow. “It had been my belief that your relationship with your brother is a positive one.”

“It is,” Raoul confirmed. “I am simply uncertain as to how he will react to your presence here.” Even though Erik’s hands were no longer on his shoulders, holding him in place, Raoul found that he could not move, could not turn around and look at Erik.

“Negatively, of course,” Erik said, as though informing Raoul of an obvious fact, and was that a note of _amusement_ in his voice?

“You do not sound worried,” Raoul stated rather than asked.

Erik scoffed scornfully. “I have met people far more terrifying than your brother, fop.”

Raoul rolled his eyes. “You keep calling me that. An insult is only effective for so long as you do not overuse it.”

Eventually, Erik stepped away, brushing imaginary dust particles off his coat. “As _lovely_ as this encounter has been, I do have a debt that I need to repay before I can be free of your presence. I will no doubt see you later, little vicomte.”

Raoul finally turned around, just in time to see the door close behind Erik.

For his part, he remained in the room, as though rooted to the floor, before his eyes snapped up to look at the ceiling. He could have sworn that he had heard something in his ear—a murmur, a whisper, a melody.

He shook his head. It had been his imagination. Out of everyone in this house, only Erik could make his voice reverberate like that, and he sincerely doubted that Erik would actually _sing_ to him, of all people.

 

₪ ₪ ₪

 

Erik’s nocturnal visits did not stop. Night after night, as Raoul went to bed, his movements were being watched by a pair of yellow eyes. Raoul had stopped bothering to convince the man to leave, as all of his attempts to this point had been futile.

Any other man would find it disturbing, and on some level, Raoul supposed that he did as well, but it was also a comfort to know that Erik was so close yet seemed to harbour no ill intent towards Raoul. Since he did not harm Raoul during the night, when Raoul was most vulnerable, it gave Raoul hope that he could trust Erik not to harm him during the day.

No, Raoul decided, for as long as Erik felt indebted to him, he would not kill or otherwise grievously harm him.

The vicomte sighed, fighting the urge to turn around in his bed. It was just another night and another dream—

—and yet, the same two yellow dots were following him wherever he went.

He would have told Erik to stop, except that he did not think that the man would listen.

So be it. As long as he was doing no harm, Raoul could tolerate it for now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Was it good? Bad? Out-of-character? I'm flying blind here and making things up as I go *unrepentant grin*


	5. On The Behaviour And Habitat Of Ghosts…

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Enter Madame Giry.

Raoul had known that he would eventually have to introduce Erik to the rest of the inhabitants, but he was at a loss as to how to do it. How did one introduce a man such as Erik? _“Yes, hello, mesdames et messieurs. This is the man who has haunted the Opera Populaire for the past twenty years”_? Raoul was aware of just how well _that_ was going to go over.

For better or for worse, however, the decision was abruptly taken out of Raoul's hands.

"Erik!" A shout reverberated around the house, shattering Raoul’s train of thought. It was filled with shock and not a small amount of distress.

Fearing the worst, Raoul set off at a brisk pace in the direction of the sound, his stomach twisting into knots as his mind conjured up worse scenarios by the second, for, in his mind, there was no doubt as to the identity of the owner of that voice. Apart from himself and Christine, there was only one other person alive who knew the name of the man who pretended at being a ghost and who could recognize Erik by sight—even if the face would throw her off, no doubt.

Raoul shuddered at the thought of what Erik could be doing to Madame Giry.

He skidded to a stop on the kitchen, ready to intervene in whatever situation had arisen. He was, however, at a loss as to how to deal with what he saw before him:

Madame Giry was standing by the table, her right hand gripping a fork hard enough that Raoul was afraid that she would bend it. Her face was pale, matching Erik’s alarmingly white skin.

Erik, for his part, was standing by the bread box. The expression on his face was not unlike that of a child caught with a hand in the cookie box.

"Madame Giry...?" Raoul asked carefully as he took a step towards the elder woman.

At the sound of her name, Madame Giry’s eyes snapped to him. They softened when she took in his presence. "Vicomte, keep your distance," she ordered.

That, however, was easier said than done, for the noise had attracted the other residents of the de Chagny estate, who were beginning to trickle into the kitchen, filling up the space behind Raoul.

Erik's eyes flickered to the growing crowd, and his expression morphed from one of apprehensiveness to outright panic. His right hand twitched, no doubt involuntarily straining to reach for the lasso, the outline of which Raoul could just make out through Erik’s clothing.

Raoul sighed. "I had been hoping to avoid this," he muttered to himself, quietly enough that no one, bar maybe Erik, was able to hear him.

He changed course, heading towards Erik. The man was staring at the people behind Raoul in thinly-veiled trepidation, looking like he was two seconds away from sinking into the floor and forevermore disappearing from the surface of the Earth, his earlier promise to Raoul be damned. He seemed almost… afraid of them, although why, Raoul could not tell.

Huh. Raoul had not known that Erik was afraid of crowds, but, in retrospect, maybe he should have. Erik had, in all likelihood, not often been around large groups of people for extended periods of time, at least not as far as Raoul had understood it from Madame Giry’s succinct explanation. It made sense that he would fear large crowds, especially considering the words he had thrown back at Raoul during one of their arguments:

_“Do you have any idea of what it feels like to be hunted by a barbaric mob with frightening regularity?”_

No, Erik did not have the best experience with crowds.

Raoul peered closer at Erik. The man looked like he was going to be overwhelmed any moment.

Taking pity on the man, Raoul stepped closer and linked his arm through Erik’s. Erik’s eyes snapped down to meet his. For a moment, Erik peered down at him with empty eyes, as though unable to comprehend what Raoul was doing. Raoul held his gaze, trying to draw Erik’s attention away from the amassing horde of people.

Madame Giry’s eyes were now flitting between Erik and Raoul in confusion. “Monsieur?” she said hesitantly.

Raoul did not speak, but glanced pointedly at the people behind them.

Madame Giry understood the message he was trying to convey. Her staff made a resounding sound as It struck the floor, effectively silencing the chatter around them.

Raoul could not help but marvel at the power that the aging woman possessed. With but one strike, Madame Giry managed to quieten not only her ballet rats but also various members of the stage staff—including, but not limited to, the acting-manager, M. Mercier. Raoul began to get an inkling of just who was the true power behind the managers.

Meg peered at Erik from behind her mother, but did not speak up.

"Now," Madame Giry said calmly, her eyes once again zeroing back to Erik, "an explanation would be much appreciated."

"I think," Raoul said at length, "that this discussion would be better had in private."

Madame Giry levelled him with a distinctly unamused glance. "That ship has already sailed, I believe."

 _And whose fault was that?_ Raoul wanted to retort, but the words died on his tongue when he felt fingers digging into his arm. A reminder of the presence next to him—the presence of a man who was now shaking slightly, looking to be on the verge of a breakdown.

He sighed, then made up his mind.

“Sit, please,” he gestured at the table, then guided Erik to a seat opposite the one Madame Giry chose. It was hardly a difficult task, as uncommonly pliant as the man was.

Madame Giry glanced between them expectantly. “Well?” She arched an eyebrow.

Seeing as Erik still did not seem inclined to talk—which had to be a first, considering how all too willing he had been in the past to one-up Raoul at every opportunity—Raoul took it upon himself to apprise Madame Giry of their situation. As succinctly as possible, he explained everything about the sorceress and his wish to Madame Giry, all too aware of the crowd, now quiet except for occasional whispers that were quickly silenced, listening to him as well.

Hushed whispers broke out when Raoul got to the part about Erik’s identity. Out of the corner of his eye, Raoul saw several people flinch away from Erik, while others leaned forward in hopes of catching a glimpse of the ever-elusive Opera Ghost. At least no one had run away screaming yet, which in Raoul’s mind was a success.

Beside him, Erik was still stiff, but at least he had stopped shaking.

It was odd to see the otherwise ethereal man display his fears so plainly for the world to see. In that moment, he reminded Raoul of a dog—a dog that had been mistreated as a puppy, and now shied away from strangers. While Raoul was not entirely comfortable with comparing the Opera Ghost to a canine, the comparison was certainly apt.

When Raoul was finished, Madame Giry was silent for a long moment.

“Well,” she finally said, “I must admit that this is far from what I had been expecting.” She stared thoughtfully at Erik’s face for another moment, as though it had been the decisive proof to back up Raoul’s claims—and, in a way, it was. Raoul did not know of anything else that could alter a person’s looks so permanently, and on so grand a scale.

This was apparently too much for their inquisitive audience still lingering in the doorway, which had since grown to encompass M. Remy, the secretary.  
"Are you really the Opera Ghost?" one of the younger ballerinas—Jammes, was it?—piped up.

At the sound of her words, Madame Giry's head turned sharply, fixing the girl with a frosty look. The girl shrank back, flushing with embarrassment.

"She does have a point, mother," Meg unexpected spoke up. "We're all curious as to who this man is supposed to be."

Raoul felt rather than saw Erik tense up. For the first time since Raoul had stumbled upon him and the aging ballet mistress in the kitchen, he opened his mouth. “The ballet rat is unfortunately right.” He too turned to study the crowd. “Yes. You know me as the Opera Ghost.” Erik’s voice did not shake as it carried across the room. He seemed oblivious to the involuntary shudder that went through the crowd at his words.

Hushed conversations broke out, before M. Remy stepped forward. His expression was in equal parts apprehensive and furious. His eyes flickered a few times between Erik and Raoul, finally settling on the latter. “What is the _meaning_ of this?” the man demanded coldly. “Monsieur de Vicomte, why are you harbouring a wanted criminal?”

Raoul cleared his throat. “He is my guest, monsieur.”

“He is a fugitive from law!” Remy protested.

“Guilty of what?” Erik retorted, and the temperature seemed to drop with every word he spoke. Remy’s presence appeared to have shaken him out of the stupefaction that had befallen him, and he reverted back to his usual terror-inducing self.

Remy swallowed, but braved on. “You killed two of our employees, then set the opera house ablaze.”

“Unless my memory fails me,” Erik noted smoothly, slowly slipping into what Raoul had taken to calling his persuasive persona, “Buquet’s death was ruled as an accident. Piangi’s death was unfortunate, of course, but I highly doubt that you will find much evidence linking me to it. ‘Tis hardly my fault if you are overly superstitious, Monsieur Secretary.

“A for the opera house… Yes, it was a regrettable action on my part, and it will no doubt gladden you to discover that I have dedicated myself to its reconstruction”—Remy looked like he had swallowed a lemon—“but considering that my very life had been, in that moment, in danger, I dare say that the circumstances were extenuating. I believe that the legal term for that is ‘self-defence’.” He paused. “Or do you have more numerous crimes still to attach to my name? My disfigurement, mayhap?” He eyed Remy expectantly. “Has the management really sunk so low that they have taken to hunting people because of their looks?”

Remy’s nostrils flared. “Stop putting words in my mouth, Monsieur Opera Ghost. Of course we do not judge people for their looks.”

Erik quirked an eyebrow. “Indeed? Well, in any case,”—he spread out his hands, and one came to rest on Raoul’s shoulder—“my looks have improved, so that is no longer an excuse either.”

Remy spluttered, and Raoul watched as, out of the corner of his eye, Gabriel, the chorus-master, turned away, pressing a hand to his lips to stifle a grin.

“This is beyond my authority.” Remy’s lips pursed into a thin line. “The managers need to be made aware of this. If you will not listen to me, I pray that you listen to them,” he told Raoul, although there was a note of doubt in his voice that belied his words.

With these words, the secretary turned on his heels and stormed out of the room, the crowd parting before him like the Red Sea before Moses.

An overwhelming silence fell over the remaining people, many of whom were now staring covertly at the man seated at the table, sans the mask they had remembered from that last performance, only to avert their eyes when Erik glared at each in turn.

Meg eventually broke the silence. “That could have gone better,” she said in an effort to lighten the mood.

Despite himself, Erik snorted in surprise, a small smile gracing his face for a moment before once again fading away. It did not go unnoticed by the girl, however: Meg grinned brightly, as if she had achieved something remarkable—which, Raoul considered, maybe she had.

She had made Erik smile.


	6. …As Well As The Care And Feeding Of Reluctant Guests

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Madame Giry interrogates Erik, and Remy would like to point out that dealing with angsty opera ghosts is not in his job description.

After some thought, they had chosen to relocate to the lounge. Some of the crowd had dispersed, but most had stayed, opting to observe the man who had for so long watched them from the shadows, both helping and hindering at each turn. He was, after all, a most extraordinary being, having so long been swathed in shadows.

Raoul was oddly grateful that Christine was not present; she had made a promise to her adopted mother to spend the day with her, as she had told Raoul a few days previous. He could only imagine how chaotic the scene might have turned out, had she borne witness to it. Raoul was certain that Remy would not have reacted well to the opera’s rising new diva defending the resident ghost.

Erik, having long since shaken off Raoul’s help, stalked ahead of the crowd, his steps as silent as those of a cat and as dramatic as those of Carlotta. He chose the armchair, it being as isolated from the rest of the seats as possible. Raoul frankly still did not quite understand why he had not bolted yet, why he had not sought solace in the seclusion of his rooms, but there were plenty of things that he did not understand about Erik, and this was hardly a priority at this time.

To the surprise of many, Madame Giry chose the seat on the couch closest to Erik’s armchair. Meg sat down next to her mother, her eyes darting back and forth between the ghost and her mother, as though trying to solve a puzzle she had not known existed.

Raoul sat down on the opposite couch. He felt obliged to be as close to Erik as possible in order to ensure that nothing untoward would happen to anyone. After all, it had been him who had brought Erik into their midst—now, the Ghost was his responsibility.

Erik’s eyes were harsh and cold as they regarded the crowd that had followed him. His body was still, as unreadable as the mask he had worn for so long. They studied his audience as much as it studied him, only he made no secret of it.

All was silent for several moments. Raoul fought the urge to fidget.

“Well, this is embarrassing,” Meg said into the silence.

Several of the ballet girls giggled nervously at that.

"Pardon me, Monsieur Opera Ghost," the ballet rat from earlier suddenly piped up. “But… your face—“

Erik tensed up. "What about it?" His voice had a dangerous undertone to it.

Jammes bit her lip. "Well, monsieur... It's normal. Wasn't it weird before?" she asked with the innocence of a child.

“Jammes!” Madame Giry snapped. Her eyes were hard as she stared at Jammes. “I thought your manners to be better than this.”

“No, Antoinette,” Erik spoke up unexpectedly. Raoul started. He hadn’t known that Erik was on a first name basis with the elder Giry woman. Then again, he should perhaps have expected it—Madame Giry had known how to find the Phantom’s lair when no other person had. She was possibly his only confidante, had been his only link to the outside world prior to Christine. “There is no need to protect me.” His lips twisted into a sneer. “I am an adult. I am able to handle myself.”

At that, Madame Giry fixed Erik with a look that could only be described as distinctly skeptical.

Erik paused. “Yes, little rat,” he finally replied. “You are right. The face you recall had been vastly different from the one I have now.”

That only seemed to befuddle Jammes further.

Madame Giry’s stare intensified. “Erik, do not play coy with my ballet girls.”

Erik’s expression did not change, but Raoul was under the impression that he was mocking her.

“I would never dare,” Erik deadpanned.

Raoul blinked. _Deadpanned_? Since when did Erik have a sense of humour, albeit dark?

“I’m sure,” Madame Giry drawled laconically. “Monsieur, I consider you my friend, but I will not tolerate disrespect of any sort aimed towards my girls. Should I find out that you have been anything but courteous towards any of my charges, there will be consequences,” which was Madame Giry’s way of saying that she would personally skin Erik, if it was to be the last thing she do.

Erik adopted a serious expression. “Madame, if anything, I shall be an additional protector. I see no reason for my job to end with stepping out of the opera.”

Raoul was not the only one to be confused by his words. He heard several of the girls exchange soft murmurs.

“Answer the mademoiselle’s question, then,” Madame Giry commanded.

Was it only Raoul’s imagination, or did Erik’s lips quiver ever so slightly in amusement? “I believe that Monsieur le Vicomte would be more suited to answering you query.”

Now, all eyes turned to Raoul, who swallowed.

He turned to look at Erik, who quirked an eyebrow in challenge.

Remy turned to face the girls. “I have already relayed the tale regarding the events of that night.”

“Indulge us, m’sieur,” a stage-hand entreated.

Raoul sighed. With some reluctance, he repeated his story for the third time.

Throughout it all, Erik sat in the armchair, unmoving but for the pattern that his fingers were drumming into the armchair. His lips were doing that thing again, where he was feigning a lack of awareness, when in fact his whole attention was on the speaker.

Raoul found that he could not tear away his eyes from the man. Say what one would about him, and Raoul often did, but he had a captivating presence even when he wasn’t trying— _especially_ when he wasn’t trying.

Raoul’s gaze lingered on Erik’s eyes, two stones the shade of molten gold. Suddenly, they snapped up, meeting Raoul’s. The breath caught in Raoul’s throat as Erik stared at him unblinkingly.

Raoul was forced to shift his attention when Mercier began speaking.

“…quite unbelievable, in fact, and had I not known the vicomte to be a man of candour, I would have easily disregarded his claims. Even now, I find myself in the odd situation of…”

“Tedious, is it not?” said a voice mere centimeters from Raoul’s ear.

Raoul twitched, not having heard Erik approach. A glance at the armchair revealed what his ear had already discovered: Erik had moved, all without making a single sound.

“Could you please at least _make a little noise_ when you enter a room?” Raoul asked, trying to calm down his racing heart. “You will scare me to death one of these days if you will persist in sneaking up on me like that.”

The voice chuckled. His breath ghosted Raoul’s ear, and Raoul fought a shiver. “I very much doubt it, fop. You have proven yourself surprisingly resilient.”

“If that was a compliment, you are in desperate need of remedial education,” Raoul murmured quietly, trying to divide his attention between Mercier’s speech and the persistent voice in his ear.

“And you are volunteering to be my teacher?”

Raoul paled. “I was not—Do not—That was not what I had meant,” he stumbled over his words.

Erik hummed thoughtfully. “Pay attention, little fop. I believe that the acting-manager is asking you a question.”

Raoul blinked. He glanced over at Mercier, who was staring at him expectantly. “Yes, monsieur?” Raoul asked politely.

“I was asking you whether we can count on your continued patronage of the Opera Populaire. Am I boring you, Monsieur le Vicomte?” Mercier’s voice took on a reproaching quality.

Raoul blanched. “Not at all, monsieur!” he hurried to assure him.

“Then, with all due respect, you would do well to pay attention when we speak of the plans for the future of the opera house,” Mercier barked, then turned a serious look on Erik, who returned it with a glare. Mercier froze for a moment, but seemed determined to say his fill. “As would you, Monsieur Opera Ghost. After all, you do so love to remind us that it is your theatre, do you not? You have much bark, monsieur, but it is time to show some bite as well.”

Erik’s glare intensified, but he offered no caustic retort. He seemed to get the message clearly enough.

_Put your money where your mouth is, or else cease and desist with your interference._

Somehow, Raoul was confident that he knew which Erik would choose.

 

₪ ₪ ₪

 

The breakfast, late as it was, was odd.

When they returned to the kitchen, Erik had made an attempt to sneak a sandwich into his room, which, Raoul assumed, was what Madame Giry had caught Erik doing. When he tried to surreptitiously reach for the bread, however, Madame Giry had grabbed his hand.

“Erik,” she had hissed. “I do not ask much of you, but, for once, _behave_.

Erik had glowered at her, but she remained unmoved. If anything, her hold on Erik’s wrist only tightened.

At that, Raoul had stepped up to Erik and put a hand on his shoulder. “Break you fast with us, Erik,” he said quietly, his words meant for Erik’s ears only. “Please. It is rude to circumvent the host when the food has been served. ”

Erik’s nostrils flared. “I will not be ordered around.”

Raoul heaved a sigh. Erik was a prodigy in every aspect, a genius on so many levels, and yet talking to him sometimes felt like addressing a moody toddler.

Very well. If he was going to act like a child, then Raoul was going to treat him as one.

“You either eat breakfast with us, like any sane human being, or you lose access to the drawings.”

Erik scoffed. “You did not think that threat through, did you?” When Raoul did not reply, Erik continued. “If you restrict my access to the blueprints, who will design the opera?”

“It _is_ already designed,” Raoul objected.

Erik raised an eyebrow. “Only the parts included in the official drawing. What is yet to be included are the parts that made the opera house what it _was_.”

Raoul put his hands on his hips. “Well, then, if you wish the opera house to be restored to what you knew it to be, rather than what everyone else thought it to be, you would do well to sup with us.”

“Fop, you do realize that I am fully capable of stealing them, do you not?” Erik said with a scowl. “Moreover, may I remind you that you were the one to ask me for help.”

Raoul’s features contorted into a scowl. “Not if I hide them well enough,” he insisted, “and I would appreciate it if you would stop twisting the truth.”

He did not know why he was quite so adamant on this. Maybe it was simply the fact that he desperately needed to win _something_ , anything, to Erik. Next to Erik, Raoul felt woefully lacking. Even in regard to Christine, who had, in the end, chosen Raoul, he still could not help but feel as though he was competing against the other man—and was steadily losing, at that.

Erik’s eyes flashed with irritation. “Nothing is hidden from Erik.”

Raoul huffed. “ _Try me_.”

Erik had finally subsided, though not without reluctance, which was how they had found themselves seated around the de Chagny dinner table, the only table with enough seats to accommodate all of them, as, although part of the crowd from the sitting room had dissipated, having other things to do that prevented them from watching the elusive Phantom of the Opera, enough remained to fill every seat around the de Chagny dinner table.

Raoul was sitting at the head of the table. Erik being Erik, he chose the seat at the very other end of the table. Raoul was tempted to inform him that that particular seat was usually reserved for the lady of the house, and was there something he wanted to tell Raoul, but he restrained himself for the simple reason that he did not think Erik would actually care. He seemed to care very little for etiquette—his recurrent kidnapping of Christine, as well as the frequent threats he issued to the managers were fine proof of that.

Madame Giry had once again taken up a position at Erik’s side, and Raoul was beginning to get the impression that she was to serve as his guard dog—though whether she would guard him or others remained to be seen.

No, it was better to let Erik have his seat. Raoul’s only worry was that he was too far away for Raoul to be able to stop him in the case that he decided to do something nefarious.

There was a certain tension around the table, but that had to have been expected. Every so often, a stage-hand would sneak what he thought to be a surreptitious glance at Erik, or a ballet rat would giggle unexpectedly, quenched only by Madame Giry’s severe look.

It was odd to see Erik prepare a sandwich. Although Raoul had known for quite some time that Erik was simply a man, he supposed that his mind had not entirely assimilated the fact that he too needed nourishment like the rest of the human race.

“Am I truly so interesting that you feel the need to study me like a specimen at an exhibit?” Erik’s acerbic voice snapped Raoul out of his thoughts, and he realized that he had been caught staring. Flushing with embarrassment, he avoided Erik’s eyes.

They ate in uneasy silence, only periodically interrupted by someone or other asking to pass the salt.

This was not how Raoul had imagined his morning would go, but, all things considered, the consequences could have been far worse.


	7. Monsieur Khan, Sir

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Madame Giry's Damage Control reinforcement has arrived. (Or, in which Nadir Khan makes an appearance.)

They were barely half-way through the meal when Gerald, Raoul’s butler, stepped up to his side. “Monsieur,” he whispered softly enough so that only Raoul would hear, “there is a gentleman who requests your presence. He says that it cannot wait.”

Raoul furrowed his brows. He put down the utensils. “Did the man offer a name?”

“Yes, monsieur. His name is Nadir Khan.”

At those words, Erik’s head snapped up. Their eyes met. _Good_ _Lord_ , Raoul thought. There went his hope of privacy.

(Still, he could not help but be somewhat impressed. He had been aware of the fact that Erik’s hearing was preternaturally sharp, but he had not expected him to hear a whisper across the tumult that was the dinner table.)

Raoul raised an eyebrow in clear question, the question unspoken but understood. Erik nodded his head minutely, the movement invisible but to Raoul. Raoul exhaled softly. This man was an acquaintance of Erik’s, then. He was surprised at how _un_ surprised he was. Lately, it seemed that it was his destiny to further his association with Erik as much as possible, so why should this be any different?

He stood up from the table as unobtrusively as possible, but the movement still drew the attention of everyone around. Oddly enough, Erik followed suit, coming around the table. He came to a stop next to Raoul. “My dear vicomte,” he said pleasantly, and that, more than anything else, put Raoul on his guard, “I would be remiss in my duties as your guest and as your associate, was I not to accompany you to meet this Monsieur Khan.”

Raoul’s mouth fell slightly agape. “This is—You are not—We are in no way _associates_!” he protested vehemently.

Erik arched an eyebrow at him. “Are we not?” he challenged. “Am I not assisting you in the reconstruction of the opera house? Is my knowledge of the theatre not far superior to your own? Monsieur,”—he offered a smile—“who do you _imagine_ owns the opera house?”

Before Raoul had any chance of processing the implications of Erik’s words, Erik was already striding out of the room, looking for all the world like he owned the place.

Raoul sighed before following the man.

It was a fortunate thing that he did, too, for, when he entered the living room, he came upon something that could only be described as a showdown, and a most peculiar one at that: Erik was facing a tall man, his skin the colour of ebony, his eyes the colour of jade. He was wearing Western clothes and an astrakhan cap.

The man was staring at Erik in undisguised incredulity. “Erik,” he breathed. “I had heard about the opera house, but I had not dared—“ He broke off, eyes sweeping over Erik’s face. “What _happened_?” he asked at last.

“My dear daroga,” Erik said pleasantly, and Raoul could not help but shiver at the honey-like inflection in his voice, “that is a question best suited for Monsieur le Vicomte.”

The man—Nadir Khan, Raoul was reminded—turned his attention to Raoul. “Monsieur?”

Raoul was spared from narrating his story for the umpteenth time by the sound of footsteps behind him. Their departure from the kitchen had not gone unnoticed, it seemed.

“Who is this man?” one of the stage-hands—a new one, Raoul remembered—whispered behind Raoul.

One of the ballet rats—Jammes, was it?—giggled. “That is the Persian,” she said, as if that explained everything. “Gabriel—the chorus-master, you know—is awfully superstitious, and he always crosses himself when he sees him!”

Raoul frowned. The Persian’s eyes never left him, still awaiting an answer. “I’ve never seen him before,” he remarked.

“Oh,” Meg said flippantly, “he used to be around the Opera all the time—even though he wasn’t a subscriber, mind!—but he disappeared a few weeks before the new managers showed up.” She turned to Sorelli, one of the principal dancers. “It’s an awful coincidence, don’t you think?”

Sorelli did not reply. She was staring at the Persian as though he would leap at her any second.

“Nadir has a noble and generous heart,” Erik finally chose to share. Though the words themselves were kind, the insult was all but audible in his words.

How was that supposed to be in any way _helpful_? Raoul still had no idea what the man was doing here.

Neither, it seemed, did Erik.

“Where have you _been_ , daroga?” Erik’s voice was as icy as the air on a winter morning.

Monsieur Khan finally tore his eyes away from Raoul. Raoul watched he as he stepped up to Erik, and the two conversed in hushed voices. Erik’s face was impenetrable as he listened to Monsieur Khan’s words. Raoul observed their interaction—the ease with which they talked, the way their postures shifted and the way Erik’s shoulders slowly relaxed as they spoke. Raoul was not certain that Erik was even aware of his own body’s reactions.

Interesting.

An eye-roll, several moments later, was Erik’s first visible reaction. It was followed by a snort. “You, Nadir, are an irritating busybody,” Erik bemoaned, though the affection behind the words belied them. “An irritating busybody, may I add, who had promised to stay in Paris.”

Khan heaved a sigh. “Erik,” he replied patiently, “I had no choice.”

“No choice but to _abandon_ me?” Erik retorted. He slashed a hand through the air. “No, that is acceptable. Erik is accustomed to this. Everyone in Erik’s life has left him eventually!” he hissed unexpectedly, _and there it was again_.

Raoul fought the urge to sigh. For all that everyone agreed that La Carlotta was a dramatic diva, Erik could outdo her any day.

Khan closed his eyes for a brief moment. “Erik,” he said slowly, “remember what we talked about? You need to cease to refer to yourself in the third person. ‘Tis not wholesome,” which was, Raoul figured, as close as Khan would probably ever come to scolding Erik.

Erik’s shoulders slumped. “Erik knows, daroga.”

Raoul huffed. He abruptly took several steps forward until he was standing face-to-face with Erik. “ _Monsieur_ ,” he said, a tone of warning in his voice, “behave.”

He then turned to the newcomer, eyeing him with interest. Whoever he was, he was obviously important to Erik, for the man to having shown as much concern—in whatever fashion, be it through joy or, indeed, anger—as he has; and, simply by virtue of being important to Erik, he became uniquely interesting to Raoul, for whoever it was who could hold Erik’s affections for as long as this man obviously has, this man had to be _remarkable_.

“Please, monsieur,” Raoul said politely, “do join us in our meal.”

The man suddenly looked very much like he would rather be anywhere but there. “No, Monsieur le Vicomte, I would never dare intrude upon your priva—“

“Ah, nonsense!” Raoul said cheerfully, knowing that it would unsettle not only the man but also Erik himself. He put a hand on Khan’s shoulder. “The more the merrier, I say! Besides, you have come so far! It would be rude of me as a host to refuse to feed you, my esteemed monsieur.”

“That will not be necessary, I assure you.” Khan held up his hands in a placating manner, as though trying to ward off Raoul’s attempts at hospitality. “I merely came to ascertain that Erik’s condition was—“

“No, I believe that you will find that it _is_ quite necessary!” Raoul continued in the same annoyingly merry voice. “Now come, monsieur. You will not let us down, of course?” His tone made it certain to Khan that it was not a request.

Khan’s shoulders seemed to sag. In contrast, Erik’s lips turned up into something resembling a smirk.

“Very well, Monsieur le Vicomte,” Khan said finally. “Where is the meal that we are heading to?”

Raoul turned to the crowd that had followed him and Erik into the foyer. “I believe that my other guests will be more than happy to show you to the dining room,” he said, looking pointedly at the two Giry women, the elder of which nodded, although not without some reluctance.

With another sharp nod of her head, the onlookers made their way back to the breakfast table, murmuring to each other in curious voices.

“Well played, little fop,” Erik whispered into Raoul’s ear as he made to follow the crowd. “I did not imagine that you had it in you.”

Was it only Raoul’s imagination, or had Erik’s hand, just for the briefest of moments, settled on the small of his back as he spoke?

Raoul offered Erik what he thought of as his most innocent smile. “Had what in me, Erik?”

Erik stared at him for a long moment, before shaking his head, an unexpected smile on his lips. “Come along, Monsieur Raoul. You would be a very bad host indeed if you did not entertain your guest, and I”—Erik grinned keenly—“would not miss this for my _life_.”

 

₪ ₪ ₪

 

“There is one thing that I do not understand,” Raoul was saying. “You are—what—?”

“A musical prodigy,” Erik replied with a deadpan. “A master architect. A creative inventor. A—“

Raoul waved a hand. “That, I know. Madame Giry was kind enough to share that titbit.”

Erik’s speculative eyes turned to Madame Giry. “Did she, now?” he marvelled.

Raoul grimaced. It suddenly occurred to him that sharing that particular titbit of information had not been a good idea: it had served no purpose except to increase tensions between Erik and Madame Giry, which was the last thing they needed. “Never mind that, Erik. Before I was so rudely derailed, I wanted to ask you a question.”

Erik didn't prompt him, but neither did he outright refuse, which Raoul took as a tacit permission to proceed.

“How old are you?” Raoul finally asked. He chanced a look at Erik's face, trying to gauge his reaction to Raoul's question.

To his relief, the man did not seem bothered. “I was born in 1831,” he replied cryptically, because a simple number would have been _too bloody simple_ for the—hopefully—former Opera Ghost.

Raoul did a quick calculation in his head. “That would make you fifty-one years old.” He could not keep the surprise from his voice.

Erik arched an eyebrow. “Indeed. You have proven yourself capable of elementary mathematical calculations, fop.”

Raoul peered at Erik, before realization hit him. Erik was _stalling_. It might not be obvious to the casual observer, but Raoul would have liked to think that he had spent enough time in Erik's company by now to recognize the signs.

Yes, Erik was stalling, though for what, Raoul could not guess. Surely he was not about to go on another diatribe about the ‘nefarious injustices of society’?

Meg tilted her head. “I had not expected you, of all people, to be like those older gentlemen,” she remarked to Erik.

 “’Like those older gentlemen’?” Erik echoed.

Meg shrugged. “Those gentlemen who wait until they have a considerable wealth to marry.”

Erik’s eyelid twitched. “I did not intend to _wai_ —“

“Mademoiselle Giry is right, Erik,” Khan cut in. “Your attitude towards Christine, while not unusual in society as a large, is unprecedented for _you_. I had not expected you to pursue a young woman.”

“I think it is odd,” Raoul chimed in cheerfully.

Something flashed in Erik’s eyes. If Raoul did not know better, he would have said that Erik looked _dejected_. “And _I_ think that you would look good with a lasso wrapped around your neck,” Erik retorted sharply.

Madame Giry coughed pointedly. “I believe that we have strayed from the topic at hand,” she said primly. “Monsieur le Vicomte,” she then addressed Raoul, “I believe that I may be able to disabuse you of one preconception: Erik is a magician of sorts. He is able to keep himself from aging.”

“Really?” Raoul turned curious eyes upon Erik, who, apart from a slight twitch, did not react, although his expression was guarded.

Erik actually had the gall to raise an eyebrow at him, because _of course he did_. “I had been under the impression that your hearing is not impaired, fop. Do I need to re-evaluate my assessment of you?” he said with something as close to mirth as he was capable of in his voice.

“ _Erik_ ,” Khan reprimanded.

Raoul pursed his lips. “And just what _is_ your assessment of me?” he retorted. “I was under the impression that you thought me ‘the lowest of the low’. Is that not why you insist on calling me a fop?” There was a clear challenge in his voice.

There was a hint of a flicker of surprise in Erik’s eyes, almost like he had not expected a serious reply.

Khan pressed his head into his hands, slumping forward, his entire posture practically screaming resignation. He looked for all the world like he would rather be anywhere but here.

“You are essentially correct,” Erik told Raoul calmly.

Raoul blinked. Whatever he had been expecting, this wasn’t _it_. Erik had a way of, if not exactly lying, then twisting the truth to suit his needs. The opera was his; Christine was his; he was justified in his homicidal rampage, justified in murdering people who had nothing whatsoever to do with his past misfortunes.

“You are odd,” Raoul told Erik, suddenly amused, all thoughts of his previous line of questioning suddenly disappearing. He snickered. “Odd indeed.”

Erik’s nose scrunched in disgust. “I am horror. I am death. I am—“

“An overly dramatic toddler,” Khan mumbled from between his hands, interrupting Erik’s diatribe before it could truly take off.

His words managed to elicit a wan smile from Madame Giry. Meanwhile, Raoul was attempting to figure out just why his body had suddenly decided to mix up his trachea and oesophagus, because he was fairly certain that he had just introduced his lungs to Bordeaux wine from the fine vintage of 1864.

Erik’s eyes flashed with indignation. “If you will not cease to insult me, daroga, I see no reason for me to stand here and be insulted.” Abruptly, he stood up.

“Ah, Erik, do not take offense,” Raoul said playfully, Khan’s off-handed remark still echoing in the recesses of his mind and stoking the effervescence burning within him. He shot Erik a smile, which the other man did not reciprocate.

Erik’s nostrils flared with irritation. “There are many more productive things I could rather be doing,” he snarled to no one in particular.

With a scowl, he stalked off, undoubtedly intending to lock himself in his bedroom with a pile of empty sheet music and a quill. This time, Raoul did not try to stop him.

Once he was out of sight, though mayhap not out of hearing range, considering his —abnormally sharp hearing, Madame Giry let out a heavy sigh. At Raoul’s questioning stare, her lips twisted into a bitter smile. “Ignore him,” she advised. “He is simply in one of his moods.”

Khan silently nodded in agreement.

The smile fell from Raoul’s lips at last. His eyes flickered between the two, arguably the only people who could be called Erik’s friends, but they made no move to discuss the subject further. For some reason, he felt a knot forming in his stomach.

An unhappy noise escaped him. This was not how it was supposed to go.


	8. Concerning The Flexibility Of Managers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 'Tis high time for Gilles André and Richard Firmin to come see their employees. On their way, they meet their wayward Opera Ghost.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's an auspicious lack of safety pins in this chapter.

True to his word, Remy was back the following day, the two managers in tow.

Predictably, their reaction was far from optimal.

“The ghost—But you—How is he—“ André stuttered, flabbergasted. He was staring at the ghost, his face pale.

Firmin, the more level-headed of the two, turned a glare upon Raoul. “I had thought you more sensible than this, Monsieur le Vicomte!” he exclaimed, anger colouring his voice. “A man of _your_ standing, housing a criminal!—a murderer! Why, it is nothing short of outrageous! Wait until the police hears about—!”

He did not get much further before he found himself gasping for breath, a rope tightening around his throat.

Eyes widening in alarm, Raoul followed the length of the rope to its origin, where, as he had suspected, Erik stood, his Punjab lasso in hand. He had a determined look on his face, if outright hostile. Raoul had seen the man in worse moods. (Then again, those worse moods happened to be the times when Erik was actively trying to end Raoul’s life, so he didn’t know how much it said about Erik’s present condition.)

The room froze. Nary a soul dared move.

The Persian sighed. “Erik, let the poor man go,” he pleaded. “Please.”

“My good daroga, do not interfere in business that is not yours,” Erik said in a calm voice, staring at the choking man with something akin to interest, or maybe calculation, in his eyes.

Khan took a step towards Erik, lifting up his hand as though to try to prevent Erik from doing something foolish. Erik’s eyes snapped to the man, even as his hands pulled the noose tighter around Firmin’s neck. “Erik, please,” Khan repeated. “You don’t have to do this. Remember, you promised! No more murders!”

Erik’s lips drew into a thin line. “Yet _you_ did not hesitate to break your promise to stay here.”

“I _had_ to go!” the Persian insisted, but Erik was not swayed by his words.

“If Erik wants to kill, Erik will be allowed to kill, and you will not interfere,” the man in question hissed.

Khan sighed. “Erik, you are making a mistake, and I think that you know that. For a start, how will you get the managers to cooperate if you insist on strangling them?”

Erik did not reply, but neither did he tighten the noose. Raoul saw Firmin gasping for breath, but did not move. Out of everyone in this room, only Khan, and maybe Madame Giry, had a chance of stopping Erik—for all that they were not the paragon of strength, their age not being what it once was.

"Let the poor man go," Khan pleaded again. "Preferably _before_ he suffocates."

Erik's lips curled up in a sheer. "Would that be such a loss?" he retaliated. Fury was blazing in his eyes, fierce and terrifying. It took every ounce of Raoul’s self-control not to simply run and hide and pray that the eyes never found him again.

It would have been, Raoul knew, a mot futile attempt, as Erik’s eyes were constantly fixed on him lately.

Firmin made another wheezing sound, and Raoul knew, from personal experience, that the man didn't have much time left.

The Persian seemed to realize this as well. He clenched a hand nervously. "Erik," he spoke with an urgency, "you need to let this man go. No more murders, remember? You _promised_.” Khan’s voice sounded suspiciously close to begging. “And I can promise you that your chances of returning to that theatre are going to be much higher if you don't kill one of its managers."

"They are replaceable," Erik said curtly. His eyes had that certain gleam that made people in his closest vicinity suddenly want to be far, far away from him.

Out of the corner of his eyes, Raoul saw Christine enter silently. Her eyes were immediately drawn to Erik, but the man in question didn’t seem to notice.

Raoul swallowed as he was forcibly reminded that this man— _Erik_ , his name was Erik, not just some man—this _person_ to whom Raoul had extended the courtesy of inviting into his home, had made promise not to kill any of its occupants but had not mentioned anything about its guests (how could Raoul have been so _foolish_?)—could, and did, kill without a thought.

André made a dubious sound, no doubt wanting to protest that there was no way he was going to allow Erik anywhere near the Opera again, but a glance at Firmin silenced him.

“People are not _replaceable_ ,” Khan said firmly, “and it would be easier to curry favour with these two.”

“Erik,” said Christine softly, but her voice was still heard across the room. “Let the man go. He has done you no wrong.”

Erik’s eyes snapped to Christine as soon as she opened her mouth; he had obviously not heard her enter. They seemed to soften, the fury in his eyes receding. It occurred to Raoul that Erik had not had the chance to speak with Christine since she had left Raoul’s house in a hurry several days ago; since then, she had been avoiding the estate like it had been infected by the plague.

He loosened his grip on the lasso, giving Firmin just enough room to free himself from the noose. He watched as the man took a few hesitant steps back, breathing deeply—not unlike the way a nearly drowned man would gasp for air after having miraculously resurfaced. André gripped his shoulders, stabilizing his fellow manager, all the while glaring daggers at Erik, who had coiled the rope once more, and was staring down at it as though he had never seen the object before in his life.

Raoul let out the breath he had not realized that he was holding. He exchanged a wary look with Christine, and saw his feelings reflected in her eyes. Worry, anxiety, and fear, they were all there, but Raoul also saw something akin to relief.

It was a temporary victory, Raoul realized that, but it was a victory nonetheless.

“This was not quite how I had intended for this to go,” Raoul admitted carefully.

“What had you expected, monsieur?” Firmin demanded. “That we would accept him without so much as a say-so?” His eyes were furious. “He _murdered_ two of our employees.”

“Both deaths, while unfortunate, were ultimately ruled as accidents,” Erik said smoothly, seemingly having recovered from the stupor into which he had fallen.

Andre’s mouth fell open. He glowered angrily at the man. “How can we be assured, at least, that the ghost’s murdering days are past?” Andre gestured wildly. “How can we feel _safe_?”

“What certainty do _I_ have that you will not run to the police as soon as this meeting is adjourned and tell them about me?” Erik retorted. Raoul saw that his hand was twitching towards his belt, where the lasso hung.

“You deserve that and much more!” Firmin snapped. “You have caused the deaths of two of our employees, who trusted us with—“

Madame Giry stepped between the two parties. “Gentlemen, there is no need for this,” she said, a rebuke in her voice. She turned to address the two managers. “Monsieurs, Erik will be helping us rebuild the opera.”

Andre gasped. “Why, I never!” he managed.

Firmin first glowered at her, then transferred his eyes to the man in question. “That _man_ ,” he spat, “is not going near the Opera Populaire ever again.”

Erik snorted. “And how do you propose to keep me out of _my_ theatre?” he said with a sneer.

Firmin made an odd sound, opening his mouth to reply, but Andre was quicker. “And you are by no means touching the drawings,” he added haughtily. “God only knows what traps you’d include. No, no, no.” The man shook his head. “I do not trust you around the opera house.”

“You would reject the pro bono help of an architect?” Erik challenged.

André crossed his arms. “Nothing is pro bono when it comes to you, _monsieur_. Moreover, how much building experience do you have exactly, Monsieur Ghost?” he asked mockingly.

Erik’s eyes narrowed. “I will not be _mocked_ ,” he growled. “I do not need to prove myself to you.”

The Persian sighed. “Erik—“ he began, clearly detecting something in the man’s voice that caused him distress.

Erik shot him a furious glare, then shifted his eyes back to the impetuous manager. “Pray tell, good monsieur, does the palace of Mazenderan mean anything to you?” he snapped.

The Persian flinched at that. He seemed to mouth something, but Raoul was unable to pick up the exact words. Erik, however, was, and he frowned at the Persian in disappointment.

André frowned. “Yes, but—“

“Or the Yıldız Palace? The Summer Palace?” Erik was shooting off, the flame in his eyes growing by the second.

“I am beginning to detect a pattern,” said Firmin sceptically.

“Hush, you fool,” hissed André. Then, turning to Erik, he said, “We have no need of a palace constructor—at that, one that kills at the merest hint of dissatisfaction.”

Erik’s nostrils flared. “Who, my dear monsieur, do you think _built_ the Opera Populaire?” he growled. “I was one of its main architects. I dare say that it is one of my crowning architectural achievements,” he couldn’t help but gloat. “Tell me, Monsieur Manager, do you know how many doors there were in the Opera Populaire?”

Andre reddened, flummoxed. “I fail to see what this—“

“Two thousand, five hundred, and thirty-one,” Erik went on. “Moreover, there are three thousand, seven hundred, and eleven trapdoors, and seven thousand, five hundred, and ninety-three keys.” The curmudgeon arched an eyebrow in challenge. “Would you care for me to go on?”

“That is quite enough,” Madame Giry interrupted, but it was as if Erik had not heard her.

“Furthermore, I would care to remind you that not only have I helped _design_ the Opera, I also hold part of the deed of ownership.” He shifted minutely. “As for my salary? What you call blackmail is simply my fee. It is in your contracts—along with permitting you the continued use of the Opera, you also utilize my artistic and musical talents, as I have created man of the sets and costumes you have used, as well as helped the acting-manager and chorus-master greatly in casting decisions.

“And finally, in case this has escaped your notice,” Erik said rather snidely, “I know every entrance to the building, public or otherwise. I dare say that I am well-acquainted with the layout opera house in a way that no other living being is, except perhaps the rats.”

“What about the shade?” Monsieur Khan asked.

Erik flinched almost imperceptibly at the mention of the shade. That, more than anything else, piqued Raoul’s interest.

“It would be beneficial for all of you to cooperate,” Madame Giry added suddenly. Her eyes flickered between Erik and the managers, both parties having come to a stand-still. “Erik would like to resume his life at the Opera, and you might be able to profit from his tendency to work himself into the ground if need be for the sake of the Opera.”

“So we are supposed to _accept_ his presence?” André asked incredulously. “He killed Buquet! And Senor Piangi!”

“Buquet was agitating the ballet rats, and I have seen him eye several in a manner definitely not befitting a man of his age,” Erik said haughtily. “I would hardly call his early demise a loss. As for M. Piangi…” He was silent for a moment. “He was in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

“He was _on the scene_!” André protested.

“Exactly,” Erik said, his tone indicating that he had no desire to discuss the subject further.

Madame Giry heaved a sigh. “Erik, you cannot dismiss everything they say simply on the basis that they are the ones saying it. At least _hear them out_. They have valid points every now and again, you know.” She offered him an almost imperceptible smile.

Erik’s gaze sharpened. He did not reply for several moments. Just as Raoul began to think that he would not dignify her words with a response, Erik cleared his throat. “Very well, Antoinette.” _For you_ , was heavily implied.

Madame Giry’s shoulders sagged slightly as relief flashed across her features. “Thank you,” she said quietly. To the managers, she said, “And you! You need to learn to cooperate with him. Surely you have by now realized that Erik”—Firmin made an odd sound—“is not going to leave us anytime soon. Instead of wasting your time on attempting to be rid of him, as I know that you are planning, I suggest that you take advantage of his expertise. He is, as he will undoubtedly inform you numerous times, a musical prodigy—one of the greatest minds of our age, even. Had circumstances been different, he would have been hailed with the likes of da Vinci, Mozart, and Michelangelo.”

André let out a disbelieving scoff.

The ballet mistress fixed him with an angry glare. “You laugh at me now, monsieur, but you will see for yourself soon enough what an asset you have gained.”

“An unpredictable asset who would just as well string us up from the rafters as work with us,” Firmin pointed out.

Madame Giry sighed, befre glancing over to Firmin. “All I am asking for is that you do not intentionally provoke him, when there is little cause for hostilities, monsieurs,” she said plainly.

Firmin inclined his head. “That, I believe that I can promise.” He glanced over at the Opera Ghost in question. “As long as he does nothing to merit it, that is.”

André gaped at his partner. “Dear Firmin, are you completely _out of your mind_?” he demanded. “This man”—he gestured at Erik, who stared back listlessly—“has killed two of our employees.”

“I have not forgotten that,” Firmin said calmly, “but be reasonable. Our choices are clearly to either try to turn him in, which, considering his proclivities for subterfure and the sheer number of people supporting him, will be an exercise in futility, or we can accept his presence, past actions and all, and trust that history will not repeat itself. Past performance is not a predictor of future results, after all.”

“ _Hume_ ,” André groaned. “You know that I despise the man.”

Firmin inclined his head. “I am fully aware of your aversion of the man,” he said.

André crossed his arms, obviously perturbed. “I will not ingratiate myself to the likes of _him_.”

“I am not asking you to,” Firmin soothed. “I am merely telling you not to actively jeopardize Monsieur Opera Ghost’s continued existence.”

André’s eyes glinted with frustration. He said nothing for a long moment, and it almost seemed as if he would refuse, when at long last he sighed. “Very well.” He glanced at Erik. “But if he tries anything—anything at all—I will not be responsible for my actions,” he warned, staring at the man expectantly.

Erik considered him. “That is fair enough,” he answered indolently.

Madame Giry exchanged a relieved look with Monsieur Khan. It went unseen but by Raoul, who let out a quiet breath himself.

_Crisis averted._


	9. Raoul Has Sewer Goblin-Related Problems

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There's a meeting about the future of the opera house. Erik is being difficult. Raoul can't help but find that endearing but no homo, guys.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is… well. As ConvenientAlias once put it: It's least canon and the most dysfunctional side of the threesome. What's not to love?

Apart from her outburst during the managers’ visit, Christine had taken to avoiding Erik with a fervour Raoul had previously thought impossible; indeed, she had all but stopped so much as _mentioning_ him in Raoul’s presence, or at all.

Raoul, for his part, was _perfectly fine_ with that. After all, his fiancée had all but confessed that she on some level still loved the man, and while Raoul found his company surprisingly tolerable, that did not mean that it did not hurt to think about the way he held a part of Christine’s affections.

But enough was enough.

“We need to talk,” Raoul said finally, two days after the remaining inhabitants of the estate had been enlightened as to Erik’s presence. Since then, the man had put in a not-inconsiderable amount of effort into avoiding said inhabitants, while Raoul had worked equally tirelessly to draw him out of the secluded shell he was insisting on shutting himself in.

Christine looked up in surprise. She had been perusing one of the books that Raoul’s father, ever the bibliophile, had acquired during his travels abroad. “We _are_ talking, Raoul,” she said in bemusement.

“About Erik,” Raoul specified. He has never been one to run from his problems, and Christine had never given that impression either. Dancing around the subject was likely to do more harm than good.

They were both adults; it was time for them to act their age.

Christine stared at Raoul for a moment, before she carefully marked her place in the book and closed it. “Talk.” It was not a request.

“I had rather intended for you to talk,” Raoul corrected her.

Christine narrowed her eyes. “What do you want me to talk about?” she asked rhetorically. “The fact that my would-be husband is in this very house? Or how about the fact that my fiancé is making cozy with said would-be husband—that he is content with playing pretend, as if the past six months had never occurred?” She paused. “Well, I am not. Therefore, dear Raoul, if all of this is a roundabout request to be kinder to Erik, I’m afraid that I will have to deny it.”

 _Erik_. She still called him Erik. Raoul did not know which feelings that evoked in him. Or, more accurately, he knew exactly which feelings that evoked in him, but he was by no means ready to face them.

“Were you not, only a few months past, preaching forgiveness?” Raoul retorted.

Christine scoffed. “That was, as you have correctly pointed out, _several months ago_. Things have changed, Raoul.”

“When you last told me that, you also changed your mind,” Raoul pointed out. “You said that we could not be together, and yet here we are.”

Christine sighed. “That is in no way relevant to our current situation.” She gazed at Raoul keenly for a moment. Then, “You have not endured what I have. You cannot relate. It saddens me to say it, but ’tis true.”

 “You said that you love him.”

“ _On some level_ , I said! I love _you_ more; is that not enough for you?”

“It is _not_ when you continuously evade him! It creates the impression that you are running from something.”

“You were more than willing to kiss him back in his cave,” Raoul observed, a note of resentment in his voice.

Christine shook her head. “It was a whim—a way to save you!” she cried indignantly.

“But you enjoyed it,” Raoul pressed.

“What are you trying to accomplish?” Christine shot back with a question of her own.

“I am _trying_ to convince you to stop shirking your duties to Erik.”

Christine gaped. “I do not have duties to Erik!” she protested.

“Don't you?” Raoul challenged. “You are his friend—one of his few. He has precious few of them.”

“So I am to sacrifice my own health and happiness for his sake?” Christine challenged. “That I do not matter compared to Erik? Is that what you are trying to tell me?”

Raoul resisted the urge to run a hand through his hair. “Not at all, Christine.”

“Well, then,” Christine said resolutely, “Erik is your friend as well, and don’t you bother denying it,” she said when Raoul opened his mouth. “Your concern for him goes far beyond that you would show any other guest. You bend to his every whim, try to fulfill his every desire. You _are_ his friend now, whether the two of you realize that or not. At this juncture, you know him better than I do. _You_ deal with him.”

With that, Christine turned on her heels, leaving Raoul gaping after her with a dumbfounded expression on his face.

 

₪ ₪ ₪

 

[From the journal of M. Gilles André:]

> _“On the 20 th of February of the year 1882 of our Lord, a meeting had been convened in order to discuss the future of the theatre house the Opera Populaire._
> 
> _The first motion, submitted by Monsieur Firmin, was to ban Monsieur Opera Ghost from the proceedings, on the grounds of deplorable ghoulishness and ‘being an insufferable bastard’. Although this suggestion was approved by a majority vote, M. Opera Ghost refused to comply. Thus, an alternative had to have be fashioned, in which he was allowed attendance but was kept under constant surveillance by Monsieur le Vicomte, Raoul de Chagny._
> 
> _The meeting was opened by M. Firmin, who was also appointed the role of chairman of the meeting, with myself as secretary. M. Opera Ghost expressed his disapprobation with the decision, and was informed that he had no say in the matter._
> 
> _The subject of the restoration of the opera house was then raised. It was unanimously decided that we would proceed as planned; this, M. Opera Ghost did not protest._
> 
> _M. Firmin and I have conversed about this for innumerable hours the preceeding week, and I am glad to be able to report that any lingering doubts the both of us have had as to the continuation of this enterprise have been quenched, and that even though the presence of the Opera Ghost had changed certain details, the both of us were willing to proceed according to plan._
> 
> _The next topic was that of the reimbursement from M. Opera Ghost. The man in question protested vehemently, claiming that he had had ‘no choice’, and that he had acted in self-defense. Surprisingly, Monsieur Nadir Khan, who, as I have been reliably informed the day before, had been serving as Préfet de police in Persia some years past, and who was intimately acquainted both with Parisian law and with the Opera Ghost for some years now, came to our aid by claiming that the provocation on the behalf of the managers had been a consequence of the numerous threatening letters they had received, though I am at a loss as to how the man could have known about those thrice-damned missives, and argued that we, the managers that is, have been provoked first._
> 
> _For all of his self-proclaimed genius, it seemed that jurisdiction was not one of the Opera Ghost’s stronger suits, for he slumped back in his chair, looking quite like an infant as his lips twisted into something I could describe as but a snarl. Upon further inquiry, the man agreed to use his ‘salary’—though the means by which he acquired the money could scarcely be called anything but blackmail!—to pay for parts of the reconstruction as recompensation, but demanded, in return, that he be made head architect of the project, as well as overseer of any future productions once the opera house was functional again, while M. Firmin and I retired to ‘our proper place’, that was, the administrative office._
> 
> _Personally, I could not tell which part of his demand I had found harder to stomach—that he be given free reigns around the opera house once again, or that he be officially given control of the plays. M. Firmin, on the other hand, had no problems with the former, but was much more reticent about the latter. He declared that, uncheckered, he did not trust the man not to follow his every whim and execute every person who so much as dared think an opposing thought. M. le Vicomte then suggested that we nominate another man to keep M. Opera Ghost in check, to which M. Firmin told M. le Vicomte that his candidature had been accepted. I dare say that I have never seen the young man so baffled! So surprised was he, that he did not protest, though I dare say that, had he been in possession of all of his wits, he would have. What a queer idea! The Opera Ghost and M. le Vicomte supervising the productions! While the former at least had experience in the artistic field, though I dare not say how much based solely on the atrocity that was the_ Don Juan Triumphant _, the latter had never before seen the back of a stage, let alone a music sheet!_
> 
> _What a queer idea indeed._
> 
> _That settled, the meeting then proceeded to discuss the logistics of the immediate future, with M. le Vicomte reiterating that his family home was open to anyone and everyone who was in need of accomodations. I must admit that, when he had made the claim before, I had not fully believed him—surely he would show_ some _restraint!—but I have since then been divested of any lingering doubts. If he had found it within himself to stomach his archnemesis, surely he would not deny anyone else shelter._
> 
> _Despite all adversities, most—if not all—in the form of the Opera Ghost, I dare say that the meeting has been successful. I do confess to feeling a certain disquiet, however, for how long can this détente last?_

 

₪ ₪ ₪

 

Watching Erik interact with other people was interesting, to say the least. There seemed to be an eternally repeating pattern of scowl, approach, sneer, talk, glare, retreat—rince and repeat. The man was just so _awkward_ about every human interaction—which, granted, Raoul could understand, given what little he knew of Erik’s life, but that nevertheless did not detract from the entertainment value of the situation. Personally, Raoul found that the fact that some things escaped even Erik was oddly comforting. No one could be good at _everything_ , for all that Erik made it his damnedest to try.

Even more amusing, however, were the reactions of Erik’s unwitting conversationalists. They ranged from stiffness and a hasty retreat—which, so far, Erik seemed to tolerate the most—to awkward attempts to make conversation, which anyone who knew Erik was well aware that it was the last thing the man wanted.

One girl—a junior seamstress, if Raoul’s memory served him right—even _blushed_ when Erik informed her that she was standing in his way, and could she _please_ move?

Raoul watched as Erik’s eyelid twitched with every giggle that escaped the poor girl. This, he reflected, was not an unfamiliar phenomenon, albeit with a new manifestation, for there had long been something about the opera house, that extended far beyond it. It was almost as though anyone who spent a considerable amount of time there caught a disease that turned even the sanest of men into raving lunatics, explaining away every accident, small as large, by supernatural means; if not _perfectly happy_ to do the bidding of a madman, they were at least willing to humour him in order to prevent said accidents from taking place, never mind that most of them were not actually his fault; willing o overlook the fact that the man was a known assassin, a deceiver that would make Satan himself turn green with envy.

It was a veritable epidemic, and Raoul was only grateful that the visiting general populace had not caught it.

The worst thing by far, though, was that very few—if any—of the people involved seemed aware of what they were doing. Case in point: the seamstress.

“Move,” Erik finally ordered, and the girl twitched—thankfully silently, as Raoul did not know how many more giggles Erik would have been able to stomach before resorting to homicide.

Her eyes snapped up to his face, and she stuttered out some excuse before making herself scarce.

Raoul could not help the quiet snicker that escaped him. At the sound, Erik looked around the kitchen in confusion, before his eyes zeroed in on Raoul. “Monsieur fop,” he said derisively. “I should have expected you.”

“Oh?” Raoul crossed his arms.

“It has not escaped my notice that, as of late, wherever I go, you are not far behind,” Erik told him, a note of accusation in his voice.

“Pure coincidence,” Raoul dismissed.

Erik seemed ready to argue the opposite, before he paused. A small smirk crept up onto his lips. “Well, _Raoul_ ,” he drew out Raoul’s name, which caused an involuntary shiver to run down Raoul’s spine, “since you have seen fit to grace me with your presence, maybe I can find some use of it after all.”

Which was how, not five minutes later, Raoul was treated to what seemed to be a veritable rendition of Macbeth, with Erik playing all of the roles simultaneously.

“She was stuttering!” he was raging. “And _giggling_! God only knows why; _I_ certainly do not.”

Raoul’s lips twitchd into an amused smile. “Maybe because she found you handsome?” he proposed offhandedly.

The sheer idea was enough to stop Erik in his tracks. He turned to Raoul with a scoff. “That is preposterous,” Erik said, immediately dismissing the idea. “Me—handsome?” he repeated faintly. “Nay, Raoul; I fear that you have me confused with another man.”

“Oh, I doubt that.” Raoul’s voice was still casual.

“I am not, nor have I ever been, _handsome_ ,” Erik refuted Raoul’s assertion.

“Before, that may have been true,” Raoul allowed, “but things change. Have you looked at yourself in the mirror after—?” He hoped that he did not need to finish.

Erik’s lips were twisted into a scowl. “Of course, fop. How else would I have known what had transpired?”

Raoul shrugged, suddenly feeling stupid. _Of course_ Erik had seen himself in a mirror. He simply... did not react? That made no sense, considering how obsessed the man had been with his appearance when Raoul had come to Christine’s rescue.

“I had assumed that you would have felt it,” he offered helplessly.

“There is no difference to the feel of it,” Erik said haughtily, “merely to its appearance.”

Raoul fought the urge to massage the bridge of his nose. More often than not, when he spoke with Erik, it felt like conversing with a particularly apoplectic sphinx, in that Raoul understood the words separately but when Erik uttered them together, they made absolutely no sense.

“Do _you_ think me handsome?” Erik suddenly asked.

The abruptness of the question started Raoul, who flushed. “I—I do not—” He cursed his sudden inability to produce a strong of more than three coherent words. It seemed that Erik had that effect on him when he expected it least. “You are pleasing to look at,” he managed at last, stumbling over the words as though they were physical hinder, “but I do not—I have no inclinations towards—I am not a sodomite.”

Erik eyed Raoul critically. “That was not what I asked,” he noted. “It may only be me, but I have found that there is little correlation between one’s proclivities and their objective ability to assess another’s looks.

Oh. Raoul paused. He had never thought about it in that way, truth be told, but Erik had a point. He admired the arts, and yet he had never felt any sorts of... _urges_ regarding a painting.

Who knew that a conversation with Erik could actually be insightful?

“Well?” Erik prompted, and Raoul suddenly remembered that the man in question was still awaiting a response.

He let out a breath. “Yes, I would suppose that I find you handsome. You are not unappealing, you know,” he offered.

“That was mightily convincing,” Erik drawled, his voice as frosty as the air on a winter morning.

Raoul flushed.

“I am sorry,” he apologized.

He had fully expected Erik to snap at him, to lash out in anger, so he was understandably flabbergasted when Erik merely offered him a smile tinged with wistfulness. “Of course you are.” Raoul hoped that he had not imagined the note of affection in his voice. “When are you not? You are”— _naive_ , Raoul conceded with a grimace, _or simpleminded, or gullible_ —“idealistic; trusting,” Erik added darkly.

“You say that as if it is a bad thing,” Raoul retorted.

The look in Erik’s eyes was impenetrable. “It is, in this time and place.” He cleared his throat. “But we’ve strayed off-topic. I believe that we were about to address your inability to judge the appearance of the male species.” A merry smirk was dancing on Erik’s lips.

“I am not having this discussion with you,” Raoul said firmly.

Erik tilted his head. “Do you find the topic intimidating?” he asked unexpectedly, a note of curiosity in his voice.

Raoul gaped. He quickly took stock of himself. He was flustered, his face reddening at a frankly alarming rate. His hair was rather unkempt, Raoul not having bothered to take the time to freshen himself up after his excursion outside, and his clothes were likewise in disarray. In short, he was the precise opposite of Erik, who looked the very definition of collected., his clothes pressed meticulously as though he had just come from a couturier. Erik could have been a model for the clothes branch, if such a thing existed.

“You are quite _impossible_ ,” he finally said.

“Nay, little too; merely improbable,” Erik corrected, shrugging with the same air of melodrama that seemed to enshroud him wherever he went. “Now, cease avoiding the subject.”

“Im hardly _avoiding_ —”

“The denial in itself tells me more than any response you could have given me.”

“Stop being so _cryptic_!” Raoul cried.

Erik smirked. “I am the Opera Ghost, fop; it’s my job.”

Raoul’s eyes narrowed. He crossed his arms. “I am _leaving_ ,” he said resolutely.

Erik held out his hands in front of him, his palms upward, as if to indicate that Raoul was by all means welcome to try. The sheer gesture felt mocking, but then again, so did most of Erik’s actions, so it wasn’t much of a surprise.

“Leaving,” Raoul repeated.

“By all means, be my guest.”

“Technically, you are mine.”

“And are you not a poor host indeed when you lie to your guests?” Erik challenged.

Raoul turned beet red, and Erik’s smirk turned smug.

“I am leaving,” he repeated for the third time.

“If you are, you had better get on with it,” Erik dared Raoul.

Raoul glowered. “You are a right bastard.”

Erik’s laughter followed Raoul as he stalked out of the room, trying to hold on to the tattered shreds of his dignity.

 

₪ ₪ ₪

 

“He is so _frustrating_ ,” Raoul recounted to Christine the same evening. “He never seems to understand when to stop, or, indeed, what constitutes as common courtesy!” He closed his eyes as he intertwined his fingers in Christine’s. “If this were anyone else, I would have directed him to someone more qualified to help him, because God knows that I am most definitely _not_ , but...” He was quiet for a moment. “This is Erik,” he finally said by ways of explanation, his shoulders slumping helplessly.

Christine sighed, then gently pushed him away. Raoul could not blame her—he tried, honestly, but all of their conversations lately seemed to wind back to Erik eventually. The man had a way of being on everyone’s minds even when not present.

Besides, it was hardly pleasant to listen to Raoul’s incessant complaints, especially when the complaints in question were about the man who kidnapped and imprisoned Christine several times, causing her untold trauma in the process. The fact that she still held him in affection did not detract from the fact that he had essentially been her torturer. Raoul could not fault her for it, especially not when his own feelings on the matter were similar; out of the animosity that he still felt towards Erik, most—if not all—of it stemmed either from his treatment of Christine, or Christine’s own lingering feelings for him.

Every day, Raoul fought to quench those feelings, even as he simultaneously tried to stoke them into flames again, because Erik made it all too easy for him to forget about it, forget about all the atrocities he had committed—Erik, with his atrocious manners, and his tendency to ignore Raoul except at the most peculiar of moments, and his glowing yellow eyes that seemed to bore into Raoul’s very soul.

Erk, with that smile of his that Raoul could not help but find endearing even as it was clear that Erik had intended the opposite.

Erik rarely tried to be charming, and _yet_.

All too often, Raoul found that it was an arduous task to keep his attention at the topic at hand, because every now and again, Erik would smile, _genuinely smile_ , and Raoul did not want to miss out on those moments. Erik’s smiles were not as dazzling as starlight or as comforting as shelter during a thunderstorm, and yet, to Raoul, they were as precious as any beryl in existence, not to mention just as rare.

Raoul wisely didn’t inform Christine of that fact. There were some things that one did not talk about with one’s fiancée, her (hopefully former) stalker’s stunning smiles being a prime example.

Christine looked like she resisted the urge to pinch her nose—whether in exasperation or in defeat, Raoul did not know.

“Raoul,” she said finally, “I apologize if this hurts your feelings, but I had not come all this way to hear about Erik, for all that you seem to have developed a fascination with him.” She paused. “You know,” she went on, “I used to be captivated with him as well, but, love, I warn you now: ‘tis a dangerous thing. Erik is a flame, and I understand the allure he all but exudes, but if you get too close, you _will_ get burned.”

She said it so matter-of-factly, like it was a given fact, like Erik always, without fail, hurt anyone who tried to befriend him, and for some reason, it irked Raoul.

“You speak of your own experience,” he noted, “and of your own experience only.”

Christine crossed her arms. “Yes, but I highly doubt that you will have more luck than I did. You are not me.”

“No, I am not,” Raoul agreed, “but I do not see that as a bad thing. After all, you have not had much success, did you?”

“Through no fault of my own.”

“No?” It had not seemed that way to Raoul, and while he would not have preferred if Christine had chosen Erik over him, he could not help but note that, in the end, it had been Christine’s choice to cast away Erik.

Christine’s eyes flared with barely-concealed anger. “Look, _Monsieur le Vicomte_ ,” she put an emphasis on his title, and Raoul took an instinctive step backward at her tone, “are you accusing me of something? Would another outcome have been preferrable?”

“No, but I think that saying that it is not your fault is a—“

“I would not have liked a life with him—rotting in capitivity underneath the opera house, a prisoner of his twisted mind, until nothing remained of me but a shell of my former self,” Christine went on, ignoring Raoul. “I am my own person, Raoul, and I have a right to choose my own fate! We live in a civilized society, do we not?” She fixed him with a furious stare. “Don’t you _dare_ take away my freedom of choice. _He_ had already tried that. Please do not sink to his level. Do not blame this entire situation on me. While I’m not entirely blameless, I am very much a victim of my own circumstances.”

Raoul sighed, and it was as if all of his energy suddenly drained out of him. “I am not placing the blame on you,” he refuted.

Christine stared up at him despairingly. “But you _are_ , do you not see? By saying that ‘twas _my_ person that was defective, that made the wrong choice, you are implying that the fault lies with me, that I should have chosen differently. Does that not make me nothing more than a toy for you two to argue over?” She took a trembling breath. “Erik was the one at fault. It was he who stalked me, who followed me against my wishes, who forced us into this, who laid out trap after trap in an attempt to ensnare me in his twisted words,”—Raoul swallowed, for he, too, had laid out a trap, albet meant not for Christine but for _Erik_ ; did that make him complicit? He feared that it did, but did not dare voice his thoughts—“and who finally trapped me in a cave with but two options: my life for yours.”

Raoul discerned that she did not mention the fact that she had found a way around Erik’s ultimatum.

“And I know him enough to know that he will not change his ways, not unless something very drastic happens, and I do not foresee that happening. _That_ is why I do not believe that you will have more luck than I did,” Christine concluded.

As Raoul listened to her, dread settled in his stomach. How much truth was there to Christine’s words? Was he simply another pawn in Erik’s ongoing game for his own sick amusement? Was he to eventually meet the same end as Christine—as Piangi—as _Buquet_?

He shuddered.

Christine must have seen the look on his face, for she shot him a tiny smile. “Despair not, sweet Raoul,” she consoled him. “If what I have gleaned these past several days is correct, you are not wholly dispensable to him. He seems to view you as a”—she grimaced—“friend, for the lack of a better word.”

“That does not help matters,” Raoul said darkly.

Christine shrugged. “I can offer no other solace but to remind you that his other friends, Monsieur Khan and Madame Giry, have been acquainted with him for a long time, and have not come to any harm.”

“You were his friend as well,” Raoul reminded Christine, “but that did not prevent him from mistreating you.

To his surprise, however, Christine was shaking her head. “You are mistaken, Raoul. I was his student, his obsession, his ‘prized possession’,”—she sneered—“but we were never equals in the sense that is required for friendship.”

Raoul’s body froze as his mind was trying to process what he had heard. She could not possibly mean that—

“Are you saying that… Erik has bene trying to _befriend_ me?” he finally put his thoughts into words.

Another shrug. “I cannot claim that he has been _trying_ to befriend you, but the fact remains that he has succeeded, or at least views you as a friend now—or as close to one as he is able to have,” Christine said frankly.

Raoul swallowed. One moment, Christine was telling him that Erik would never change in his ways, and the next, she was attempting to convince him not to fear him under the assumption that he—what? wanted to be Raoul’s _friend_?

The whole affair was ridiculous.

Raoul bit his lip, and Christine smiled almost involuntarily. She raised a hand, resting it on his cheek, and traced his lips with her thumb. She gently dragged his lower lip out from under his teeth. “Don’t do that,” she chastised him. “ _He_ is not worth abusing your body over.”

No, she had made her stance on that _quite_ clear. She had kissed Erik out of kindness, but she was not willing to give him anything more than that. Not her mind, nor her body, and definitely not her soul.

“I will take your advice into consideration,” Raoul told her noncommittally. He did not want to promise anything, but, at the same time, he wanted to appease Christine.

Christine raised an eyebrow, as if telling Raoul that she saw through his act, but did not comment. Instead, she went off on a tangent about Meg Giry’s latest adventure in the de Chagny gardens—something concerning Mother’s hyacinths and the discus in the shed in the back of the gardens, although why his parents had owned a discus in the first place escaped him.

Raoul let her chatter wash over him, trying to let her words cleanse his mind of his worries, but his mind kept circling back to what she had said about Erik.

What did he really know about the man? How much of what Erik showed the world was true, and how much was a facade?


	10. Creepy Erik Is The Best Erik

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Erik finds the piano. Raoul decides that sleep is a lost cause.

The house was awoken by a great sound, sounding like the crash of a thousand glass figurines.

Raoul sat up in bed at the sound. He glanced about him, trying to catch a glimpse of what had made that terrible noise.

The noise was soon accompanied by singing so great, so divine, so terrible, as surely no one on the Earth would have been able to accomplish. His heart was leaping with delight, in tandem with the music.

For a moment, Raoul drifted in and out of confusion as he listened to the sounds, before he remembered the events of the previous days. His brain finally made the connection between his memories and the voice that was humming soothing melodies that called out to Raoul, coddling him, swathing him in the softest of blankets, warming him even as it chilled him to the core.

He pressed his face into the pillows, but that did nothing to block out the sounds echoing in the house. If Raoul focused, he could recognize the instrument.

Ah. So Erik had found the piano. Raoul had wondered how long it would have taken him.

At another loud clang, this one sounding less seductive and more wistful, like Erik was pouring out his very soul into the music, Raoul groaned. He turned, pressing his face into the covers and trying to muffle the sounds with another pillow over his head. It did little to soften the melodies.

Raoul sighed, coming to terms with the fact that he would not be able to resume his sleep while that gargoyle kept banging on that piano like there was no tomorrow. He threw aside his covers, grabbed a coat to cover his rather thin night robe, and made for the door, which opened with a soft squeak. Taking care to be as inobstrusive as possible, he padded over to the room that held the blasted piano, and carefully opened the door, peering inside the music room.

The sight that awaited him made his breath hitch. His fingers clutched at the doorframe to steady him.

He could only see Erik’s back, as the piano was turned towards the door. Erik’s figure was outlined by the faint light from the candles around him. Erik’s fingers were flying across the keys without seeming to register his own actions, his body swaying back and forth with the music his hands produced seemingly so effortlessly.

The sounds washed over him, the tantalizing melodies that were filled with fantastic sadness and bitterness, the silvery tones that also held sharp bitterness in them. It was as if all the sorrows the world could produce had gathered in the fingers that swirled around the piano in something resembling an otherworldly dance.

Raoul took a hesitant step forward, fearing that, should Erik hear him, the music would stop.

He briefly considered whether Erik would consent to give him music lessons, before discarding the thought. Of course he wouldn’t have—Erik only taught the best, and Raoul was far from a musical prodigy. As far as he knew, Erik had only, in recent years—if not ever—deemed Christine to be sufficiently talented for his tutelage. Although Raoul had briefly taken violin lessons from Christine’s father during their summers together, he did not delude himself into thinking that he was anything but mediocre.

With a start, Raoul realized that he needn’t have bothered, perhaps, to be so quiet, for this close to the source of the music, the piano drowned out any other sounds around it, including footsteps. Then again, Raoul reasoned, one never knew for certain with Erik.

He placed a hand on Erik’s shoulder. The music stopped abruptly as Erik at once became unnaturally still. Raoul was puzzled, until it occurred to him that this man before him had, in all probability, been deprived of human contact for his whole life. Never had he had a person who could have simply touched him and comforted him without flinching away at his looks, revolted by his deformity. He had always had to hide.

Something inside Raoul twisted unpleasantly at the thought.

“Hello,” he finally said.

Erik did not turn around. “Monsieur le Vicomte.” His voice was oddly devoid of inflection. “What are you doing here?”

“I was under the impression that this _was_ my piano,” Raoul retorted.

“What are you doing here _right now_?” Erik elucidated. “You are not known to spend your nights wandering around the house.”

“No, indeed, but you will perhaps not be surprised to learn that ‘tis very hard to sleep when a certain _someone_ is banging on the piano all night.”

“This is not _banging_ ,” Erik snapped. “I am producing _music_ —not that I would expect someone like _you_ to appreciate my efforts.”

“Contrary to what you believe,” Raoul shot back, “I am not completely ignorant in the subject of the arts.”

Erik crossed his arms. “Forgive me if I do not fully believe you.”

Raoul shrugged. “We are to work together, are we not? As associate production-managers, was it?” he added when Erik stared at him blankly.

“Essentially correct, if a little presumptuous,” Erik said. His lips twisted into a scowl. “Are you certain that you should not go back to sleep, little fop?”

“Not until you stop making all that ruckus in the wee hours of the morning,” Raoul replied.

Erik rolled his eyes as he leaned down, his attention focused back on the piano. “Very well; have it your way.” His tone seemed to he would not be responsible for any consequences that could arise from this.

Raoul sighed. He was beginning to regret his words, but said was said, and he was too stubborn to back down. He settled in, eyes on Erik.

Ever so carefully, Erik settled his hands back on the piano. He pressed down a finger on a key, as if trying out the sound, then cocked his head. He tried another note, surer this time, and Raoul could not help but feel as though he was intruding like on a private affair, as though—

As though, against all odds, Erik was unsure in Raoul’s presence. Unsettled. Unable to play, to compose, to _focus_.

_Curiouser and curiouser, cried Alice._

Erik grew more confident with each note he played, and soon, music was once again filling the eerie silence around them.

As Raoul listened to Erik’s latest project, his eyes slipped closed, unbidden.

He did not notice that his breath evened out, or the blanket that an invisible hand slipped over him.

 

₪ ₪ ₪

 

Raoul was staring into the mirror, at his small and fair nose, at his clear-blue eyes, at his complexion—not unlike a girl's.

Therein laid the crux of the problem, it seemed.

His mind flashed back to the sight of Erik’s broad shoulders, and Raoul stifled the jealousy that threatened to overwhelm him at the thought. Most of his life, he had been teased by Philippe and his sisters for having so slight a posture, and here was Erik, looking every inch the man Raoul had wished to be.

It was ironic, Raoul reflected, that Raoul was now the one to feel envy for Erik's looks, whereas, not two weeks earlier, Erik would have gladly given his right hand to look like Raoul.

“Have you become so vain that you would spend veritable hours staring at yourself?” said a voice from behind Raoul.

He jumped a little, startled, and turned to fix Erik—for who else would it have been?—with a glare. “’Tis rude to sneak up on people unannounced,” he admonished.

Erik had the nerve to shrug. “It is hardly my fault that you were so preoccupied with yourself, _fop_ , that you failed to notice my approach,” he said shamelessly.

Raoul rolled his eyes at that. “You know, if you use the same insult on the same person, it loses its strength after a while,” he pointed out. “It’s not nearly as insulting as you think it is.”

Erik cocked an eyebrow. “Would you rather I switch insults?”

Raoul paused. For some reason, he didn’t like the thought of that very much. For all that he liked to complain about Erik’s incessant need to insult him, there was something almost _entrancing_ about Erik’s continuous use of the same word.

It had almost become an endearment, and wasn’t that a startling thought.

“Little vicomte, are you certain that you are not ill?” Erik’s voice drew him back to the present. “You seem even less in touch with reality than usual—which in itself says quite a bit,” Erik added with a sneer, but it lacked its customary heat.

Raoul shook his head. “Says the only person with more dramatic flair than La Carlotta,” he teased.

Erik’s eyebrows scrunched together. “Do not compare me to that... _thing_ ,” he hissed.

Raoul smirked. “As you wish.” He paused, then executed a theatrical bow.” L’Erik.”

Erik gaped. “Why—You—You little insolent— _brat_!”

Raoul let out a laugh. That, at least, was new, even when the setting was hardly propitious for discussions such as this.

“You have no right to call me infantile when you yourself behave in a manner befitting children of no more than four years of age.”

Erik’s lips drew up into a thin line. His fingers clutched at his clothes for a moment, and Raoul imagined that he fought the instinct to draw the Punjab lasso that Raoul knew for a fact that he was still carrying.

It seemed that his self-control won out in the end.

“As long as you never compare me to that _hag_ again,” Erik warned, and the glare he fixed on Raoul could have wilted the most fresh of flowers.

Raoul returned the stare. He suddenly became aware of Erik’s pulchritude—as sharp as a knife, and just as dangerous. Everything about Erik was a weapon, and his looks were no different.

For a moment, Raoul’s breath hitched in his throat.

The moment passed just as quickly as it had arrived. Raoul blinked in confusion.

What was _happening_ to him?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Opinions? Good? Bad? Tell me what you thought! :)


	11. Erik Is A Sociopath

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which La Carlotta makes an appearance, and Erik competes for the title of Greatest Diva In Paris.

In a move that surprised everyone, not the least herself, Carlotta Giudicelli finally deigned to show up almost a fortnight after the opera house had gone down in flames.

The diva arrived with as much pomp and fanfare as she was able to muster, which, considering who she was, was quite a bit. She walked into the de Chagny mansion with a confident gait, as though assured that she owned the place, startling a pair of stable-hands and setting the gossip mill aflame anew in the process. As she made her way further into the house, she managed to amass quite the following trailing her, which consisted of a fair share of the ballet rats, several stage-hands, the two stable-hands, Reyer the maestro, Gabriel the chorus-master, and Mercier the acting-manager—though, by the looks of it, the latter two were tagging along mrerly for the sake of cracking jokes at the diva’s expense.

This was how Carlotta, on her way to what the servants pointed out was Raoul’s study, which served the dual purpose of an office every now and again, ran into the Opera Ghost.

The crowd behind her froze at the sight, still not quite comfortable with his presence, but Carlotta paid him no heed. Unsurprisingly, she did not recognize Erik on sight—and why should she have? She had only ever seen him from afar, and even then, her sight had be obscured by the various props on-stage, and he had been facing away from her.

Even less surprising was the loud gasp she let out when she came face to face with a pair of gleaming yellow eyes, a pair of minature twin suns if there had ever been any.

“You!” Carlotta managed, her mouth falling open in—surprise? shock? fear? It was impossible to tell.

Erik eyes were aglow with some kind of malicious anger. His fingers, arm coiled and ready to move at a moment’s notice, were curling in on themselves, almost as if he was trying to stop himself from reaching out for his Punjab lasso. His smile wild and unmanageable and _cruel_. He said nothing, merely staring at her with that impenetrable stare of his.

“Me,” he agreed, a twisted smile on his face. “I would say that it’s a pleasure, but I am not in the habit of lying.”

She was gaping. “You—You—You _monster_!” she cried. Her hands clenched into fists. “You _murdered_ Ubaldo!”

“The evidence is circumstantial at best,” Erik replied dusmissively.

“Circumsta—You are lying!” she shrieked. She took a few steps towards him, her hands flying up like she was trying to get a hold on Erik’s neck, but Erik, deft as ever, danced just out of her reach.

Behind Carlotta, the shadows cackled with malignant joy.

“What is the meaning of this?” thundered a voice from behind the diva.

Carlotta turned around, and came face-to-face with the master of the house.

Raoul de Chagny stared at the diva, before glancing Erik’s way. “What did you do again?” He sounded weary.

Erik did not react to his inquiry.

Carlotta gawked. “You—He—” she once again floundered for words. “You knew about his presence! You have allowed this—this freak, this deviant, this _murderer_ , into your house!”

Raoul raised his hands in a pacifying manner. “Seniora, I know that it does not look good, but—”

“You are damn right it does not look good!” Carlotta shrieked. “How can you allow this—this _thing_ to roam free?!”

Raoul sighed. “I realize that this is far from optimal, but we’ve little choice in the matter.”

“‘ _Little choice’_?” Carlotta echoed disbelievingly, glowering at Raoul for a moment.

She then turned to look at Erik again, only to discover that the man in question had vanished, as though by the snap of a finger.

“You!” Carlotta hollered. “Ghost! Return here this instant!”

“Or what, little toad?” asked the wall.

“Erik,” said Raoul sternly.

“Yes, my dear vicomte?”

Was it only Raoul’s imagination, or could he actually _hear_ Erik’s innocent grin?

“Behave,” Raoul scolded.

Erik feigned indignation. “Me, good monsieur? Why, I am doing nothing of any sort.”

“Yes, and my walls have taught themselves to talk,” Raoul snapped. “Vindictiveness does not become you.”

“Oh?” whispered a soft voice into Raoul’s and Carlotta’s ears; having anticipated the move, Raoul fought down the urge to flinch.

Carlotta’s self-control was nowhere near Raoul’s, and she visibly started, before turning on her heels in a frantic attempt to locate Erik. She found him mere centimeters away from her face, and twitched. “Get away from me, you _Bonapartist gremlin_!” she squeaked shrilly.

“Most fascinating,” Erik murmured, staring down at Carlotta’s face with a peculiar expression on his face, as though examining a zoo exhibit. “In all of my long years, I have never been called a Bonapartist.”

Raoul blinked, nonplussed. Was _that_ the part that Erik had trouble grasping? Why, if La Carlotta had called _Raoul_ what she had just so carelessly thrown into Erik’s face...

Then again, he supposed, Erik did not look incensed so much as simply curious.

Erik was not him, and he was not Erik.

It would do well not to forget that.

“Especially,” Erik went on, “by one so devoid of any talent for the arts as you, _seniora_.”

The room seemed to freeze for a moment as everything came to a stand-still. Raoul held his breath, his eyes darting between Erik and Carlotta, wondering whether he should interfere, should a physical fight break out.

Then—

“Why, that is the _line_!” Carlotta cried. She threw up her hands into the air. “I have been here for _nineteen seasons_ —have served tirelessly at the behest of this opera’s managers—have been a _slave_ to their wishes—and do I get any thanks? Any recognition? No! I am suddenly tossed aside like a forgotten rag doll when a porcellaine one comes along! I am discarded for this _Christine Daaé_!” Carlotta spat. “Well, it is not _Miss Daaé_ that has kept this theatre alive!—that has sacrificed her voice and her devotion and her very _soul_ in order to keep it active!

“And now _she_ is to _replace me_?! _Me_?! Just like that?! Just because she sang Elisa _once_?! Just because she played the Countess _once_?! Just because he”—Carlotta snapped her fingers in Erik’s direction—“has decided to make her his _precious protégé_?!

“Nay, I declare! That is _disgraceful_ —worse, _dishonourable_! I have a superior singing voice and more experience on the stage than she does. She should not besmirch the stages with her presence. This woman does not belong on a stage.”

“Christine Daaé has more right to be on a stage than you do,” Erik said, deceptively softly.

“Erik—” Raoul began.

Yellow eyes, unimpressed but no less dull for it, met his briefly before snapping back to the diva’s.

Carlotta glowered at him, before crossing her arms haughtily. “Either he leaves, or I do,” she finally declared. “Those are my terms. I cannot work with the murderer of Ubaldo.”

One of her arms flew out to her sides, narrowly avoiding hitting Erik in the process. Raoul winced, his mind already running through the scenarios of Erik’s retaliation, every possibility worse than the last.

“And I,” Erik said, measured, “cannot work with a false diva pretender whose high Fs fall flat every time, and whose shrieks will undoubtedly cause us all to go deaf before the yeaf is over.”

“As opposed to the man, I presume, who would see us all killed within a week?” Carlotta retorted.

Erik’s mouth thinned into a barely-visible line. “You will not speak to me this way!”

“I will speak to you however I want!”

Erik’s hand twitched in the direction of the lasso hanging off his belt. Before he could wrap his fingers around it, however, a hand caught his wrist in a surprisingly tight hold.

“Erik,” Raoul hissed quietly, “don’t do anything you will regret.”

“Oh, _trust me_ , this is hardly anything I would regret,” Erik sneered.

“You will,” Raoul insisted. “You forget that you are now a production manager of the opera house, together with myself, an arrangement that will be announced by the end of the month, and are expected to act with the dignity that the office merits. I will not have you sullying my family name, nor the reputation of the Opera Populaire, by lashing out with all the self-restraint of a spoiled child.” He gave the diva a brief look-over. “Now, apologize to her.”

“There is no need, _Monsieur le Vicomte_ ,” Carlotta cut in before Erik could offer a scathing reply. “I am leaving. Permanently. I cannot stand to be in the presence of this _freak_ for any longer.”

At the word ‘freak’, Erik shifted, his posture coiling, as though preparing to strike out. Raoul’s grip on his wrist tightened; he was fairly certain that Erik would have a few tiny bruises on his hands tomorrow—no pun intended, of course.

“Pick your battles, Erik,” Raoul warned Erik quietly.

Erik stared at him in defiance, and for a moment, Raoul thought that this, too, would be another battle Erik would pick. If he had, Raoul would have been at a loss as to what to do. He was no Christine Daaé, with her charming smile and mellifluent voice, who could, if she wanted to, control Erik with nary a word.

Fortunately, Erik did not make any other sudden movements. Raoul did not know why; he was much stronger than Raoul himself—he could have freed himself at any time.

That implied that... what, that he _wanted_ to be stopped? A laughable idea—more than that, it was _preposterous_. Erik was the Opera Ghost—the man who had, for over two decades, gone by undetected one of the most visited buildings in all of France. The man hardly wanted to be kept on a leash.

No, Raoul decided, Erik hardly wanted Raoul to act as his conscience.

There was, of course, also the possibility that Erik was indulging him. Indulging Raoul’s silly little notions of _fairness_ and _compassion_ and whatnot.

That, if anything, was even more terrifying a thought than the previous one.

Erik met Raoul’s eyes, a silent ‘Very well’ clear in those ghastly yellow cesspools of loneliness and misery and pain, and wow, his internal monologues were becoming a little too morbid for Raoul’s tastes. Maybe Christine was right; maybe he was spending too much time with Erik. His craziness certainly seemed infectious.

Erik turned his gleaming eyes on Carlotta. “Leave,” he ordered, glaring with all the hate he could muster.

Carlotta’s nostrils flared. “By what right do you order me about, _freak_?”

“By mine,” Raoul said loudly, drowning out the whispers from the crowd behind them. “I believe that it would be best for everyone involvdd if you left, seniora.”

Carlotta’s eyes narrowed. She turned around a few times, periodically glancing about the crowd, as though expecting sudden support to appear in front of her any minute now, support for her in favour of the Opera Ghost.

Alas, no such support was forthcoming.

“Fine!” she finally snapped. “You may keep your basement lunatic, monsieur. But remember,” she paused theatrically, “he comes at a high price indeed.”

Oh, but the reminder was unnecessary. Raoul was all too aware of that.

Carlotta swirled on the spot and, with as much flair as she could manage, stomped out of the house. Raoul watched her leave, and felt something _shift_ in the air.

Were he superstitutious, he would have dared claim that this signaled the end of an era. Whether it was a good or bad thing, he could not yet tell.

Erik had single-handedly managed to do what years of managers and noisy ballet rats who kept running around the hallways without a care in the world had not been able to: he had gotten Carlotta to quit.

Raoul did not dare loosen his grip on Erik’s wrist until he heard the front door close behind Carlotta. Only then did he let go, and Erik tore back his arm, rubbing his wrist with meticulous care as he glowered at Raoul. “What was _that_?” he demanded. “I could easily have killed her, had you not stopped me. She would no longer have been a problem.”

Raoul held up a finger, and watched as Erik’s eyes zeroed in on it. It was an almost comical sight. “Ah, but that would have invited a myriad of other problems to our doorstep, and the last thing you need, my friend,” Raoul paused almost imperceptibly, awaiting an interruption, but Erik did not bother correcting Raoul’s use of honourifics, “are nosy police officers.”

“He is right,” said the last voice Raoul had expected to get involved in this conversation as Christine suddenly appeared at Raoul’s side. “There are battles that are not worth fighting”— _such as most battles with Erik_ , her expression silently added—“and besides, have you not achieved your goal?” At Erik’s empty stare, she elaborated, “I am on stage, Carlotta is not, and you have official control over the productions—yes, the rumours have reached my ears. Why fight?”

“Because I cannot stand the thought of this—this _cockroach_ poisoning another stage with her voice,” Erik spat.

Christine took a hesitant step in Erik’s direction. “Don’t,” she said calmly.

That one word from her achieved what no amount of convincing from Raoul could. Erik’s shoulders sagged, his posture relaxing minutively. Raoul felt something stir up within him, a  feeling that clenched his insides, making him unexpectedly restless as he glanced between the two.

He started towards Christine. She tensed up at the motion. Erik’s hand froze mid-movement, before an inscrutable expression settled on his face.

“I see how it is,” he said curtly.

He withdrew his hand, then, as Raoul could do naught but blink, vanished before them, as though melting back into the shadows from whence he had come.

Raoul blinked. He turned to Christine, a bewildered expression on his face. “Did you know what—”

“Do not ask me,” Christine cut him off before he could finish formulating his question, the look in her eyes an odd mix of horror and wistfulness.

That would be a ‘yes’, then. Christine knew what had just happened, an understanding which Raoul was woefully lacking, but for some reason, she had not chosen fit to share it with Raoul.

As abruptly as Erik had left, so did Christine depart—although she, at the very least, chose an earthlier way of doing so.

Raoul stared after her retreating figure, mentally wondering whether there was something that he should have done. Probably, he surmised, but as experience went to show, he was not very good at following the script of Should Haves.

A pointed cough alerted him to the fact that the crowd that Carlotta had gathered on her way into the house had yet to disperse, and that it had seen all that had transpired between himself, Erik, and Christine.

He sighed as he turned around to face them, putting on the most cordial expression that he could manage at the moment.

“I sincerely apologize for dragging up my personal business for everyone to see.” It seemed to Raoul almost as though he was hearing his voice from afar, from beyond a fog.

Meg giggled. “I beg your pardon, monsieur? This is the best entertainment we have had for _weeks_!” she cried, not unsympathetically. “By all means, do continue. We hardly mind, do we?” she addressed the crowd, who shook their heads.

“Little Meg is right,” piped up one of the stage-hands.

Meg put her hands on her hips, looking quite cross. “ _Little Meg_ will also not be responsible for her actions if you do not desist in calling her ‘little’,” she snapped. “Besides,” Meg spoke to Raoul again, a note of teasing in her voice, “it is comforting to see for oneself that the mysterious Phantom is not that different from us mere humans after all.”

Gradually, one by one, the crowd began dispersing, as Raoul stood still, his eyes fixed on the wall in front of him.

Eventually, only Meg remained. She lifted up her hand and put it gently atop Raoul’s shoulder.

“Are you alright, monsieur?” she asked softly, taking care so as not to be overheard. In so quiet a voice, only Erik could possibly have heard her, and even that only if he had been listening—which Raoul was reasonably sure that he could not care less about, at the moment.

Raoul nodded numbly.

Meg’s eyes narrowed in incredulity; to Raoul’s relief, she did not argue the point. “Very well,” she acquiesced at length. “If you need any help that I can provide, do not hesitate to ask for it.”

With that, she, too, made herself scarce, leaving Raoul to his thoughts.

He could not tell how long he stood in the same spot, staring at the wall ahead of him with a distant look, before he heard a voice behind him ask, “Rough day?”

Raoul jumped slightly as his heart sped up, startled. He turned around quickly, and came face-to-face with Nadir Khan.

“I sincerely apologize for startling you, monsieur,” Khan deadpanned, a stony expression on his face that Raoul could not see through. It was impossible to tell whether Khan’s words were sincere; still, Raoul had no cause to believe that they were anything but, given that Khan had done nothing to merit any suspicion on Raoul’s part.

“’Tis alright,” Raoul replied, even as he heard his heart beat gradually slow down. “One would think that I would be used to beign snuck up on, considering the company I’ve kept as of late, but it seems that even Erik’s presence has done little to improve my self-awareness.”

At that, a smile cracked Khan’s lips. “I understand perfectly, monsieur,” he assured Raoul. “I have had his acquaintance for more than three decades, and still I have not entirely become accustomed to his tendency to appear out of thin air. I suspect that no one ever truly does.” He cleared his throat. “But enough about that. I hear that you are having some trouble?” he asked abruptly.

If this was an attempt to coax information out of Raoul, the vicomte reflected, it was a truly pitiful one. He and Philippe had done better as children.

Still, as he looked at Khan, he perceived no deceit, no desire to gain the information simply to spread it around as gossip or use it against either himself or Erik—and Raoul considered himself to be a decent judge of character. Then again, he remembered, Khan _was_ Erik’s friend, was he not? Maybe there was no pretense to his request; maybe he truly did just want to help Raoul—and, by extension, Erik.

Mind made up, Raoul took a deep breath, which drew sharp brown eyes to him.

"I am at a loss as to what to do with him,” he confessed. “One moment, he is willing to cooperate, and seems almost _happy_ , and the next, he has his lasso wrapped around Carlotta’s neck for ‘insolence’.” He scoffed. “While I am tremendously pleased with the amount of progress I have made with him, I cannot but help but discern that there is something that escapes me still.”

Khan sighed. “He had a will of iron, which no one that I know of can bend,” he began slowly, seemingly at random, and Raoul blinked at the non-sequitur, “and a spectacular temper which has repeatedly led him into trouble. Genius is a human attribute. He is quite beyond that. What he is cannot be described by any human language—and not for the lack of trying. His aptitude is quite beyond belief.” Khan paused. “And yet, for all that, he is so naïve, Monsieur le Vicomte. He has the brain of a genius, but the soul of a child. Mind, this is not an attempt at justifying his actions, for nothing can, but you need to understand why he is the way he is.”

“Monsieur, I hardly see—” Raoul started.

“Monsieur, please call me Nadir,” Khan advised. “I think that, with how much time you spend reigning Erik in, you have more than earned that right.”

Raoul inclined his head. “Nadir. I insist, then, that you call me Raoul. As I was saying, I hardly see how this in any way helps me.”

“It will help you understand him,” Nadir insisted. "Now, listen. He has both an inferiority and a superiority complex. He is a perfectionist, and abhors people who cannot keep up with him; or, failing that, people who cannot follow simple instructions.”

Raoul's shoulders slumped. "Such as myself?” he asked with the tired resignation of a man who had seen much beyond his years.

Nadir blinked in surprise. “Why, no, monsieur! Of course not. Why would you think that?”

Raoul’s lips were twisted by a bitter smile. “I am very well aware the fact that Erik does not consider me to be terribly bright,” he told Nadir frankly. “For God’s sake, he keeps calling me a fop,” Raoul lamented.

A small smile crossed Khan’s lips. “I believe, monsieur, that he has in point of fact made ‘fop’ his term of endearment for you, odd though it may seem.”

Raoul scoffed. Nadir’s assurances rang false in his ears. He was a realist, after all; he did not delude himself into thinking that his mind or soul was a bright enough beacon to lead Erik into the light again. He said as much out loud.

Nadir tilted his head in contemplation, before fixing Raoul with a pensive look. “Has it occurred to you, monsieur, that it might be you who must step into the darkness?” the former police chief challenged. At Raoul’s empty look, he elaborated. “He is a creature of darkness just as much as you are a creature of light, and he is not wont to step outside of the shadows in which he had been lived his whole life.”

“Why would he want to stay there?” Raoul wondered.

Nadir gave a slight shrug. “Why not?” he asked simply. “They have always offered him refuge when nothing and no one else would. The prince of conjurers, and yet the one thing he never could conjure was the one thing he wanted—nay, _needed_ —more than anything: compassion.” The corners of Nadir’s lips turned down in a frown.

To that, Raoul had no reply.

Nadir studied him in silence. “You are a brave fellow,” he finally decided.

Raoul blinked. “I... Thank you?” He was unsure as to whether Nadir meant it as a compliment—and, further, whether he ought to take it as one.

Nadir must have seen the puzzled expression on his face, for his smile became quirked. “I know what goes on through your mind. Let me assure you: it _is_ a compliment.”

“How wonderful,” Raoul replied, his voice dripping with sarcasm. He dusted off his clothes, before clearing his throat. “Well, this has certainly been enlightening, but I’m afraid that my presence is needed elsewhere. Paperwork waits for no man.”

Nadir shook the hand Raoul offered him. “Too true, too true. Good luck, Monsieur Raoul.”

“Good day, Monsieur Nadir,” Raoul said, but, even as he headed in the direction of his office, he could not help but feel as though he had missed something vital in the exchange.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Remember: comments are the best gifts you can give! I appreciate whatever feedback or comments you can offer :)


	12. Everyone’s A Drama Queen, Especially The Managers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Firmin and André are Extra™. So is Erik, but that's nothing new. Also, Raoul resolutely avoids an identity crisis.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So… Sorry for not posting for such a long time? *sheepish look* *hides behind Real Life*

For the first time in quite possibly their entire tenure at the opera house—at least, to Raoul’s knowledge—the managers had seemed fit to break their fast with their employees.

They were quite satisfied with the food, and even more so with the company, but the silence, uncomfortable as it was, still hovered over the breakfast table like an ominous ghost. Raoul met Meg’s eyes, and saw that she shared Raoul’s apprehensions.

Firmin eventually broke the lull with a, “Where is that infernal spectre?” His words were harsh against the relative silence around the table.

The ballet rats exchanged bewildered looks, then in unison turned to look at Madame Giry, who, in turn, looked to Nadir Khan. Their eyes met, and they seemed to communicate silently, before, as one, turning to look at Raoul. Raoul swallowed when he noticed that the rest of the table quickly followed suit, and that he was now being scrutinized by no less than over two dozen pairs of eyes.

“Well, Monsieur le Vicomte?” André prompted when Raoul proved somewhat less than forthcoming with an answer.

“Well what?” Raoul replied sotto voce.

“Where is he?” André elaborated.

Raoul gave a brief shrug. “How should I know?” He was by no means Erik’s guardian, though he had no doubts as to whether Erik needed one.

André shifted. “Considering the amount of time you spend with him,” he said slowly, “it is not an unreasonable conclusion that you would possess that knowledge.”

Raoul was saved from coming up with an answer that would refute André’s words without offending either man by the sound of a piano playing in the distance.

As the music washed over them, Raoul heard a quiet gasp from beside him. He did not have to turn around to know that it had come from Meg.

Raoul closed his eyes almost unwittingly, unable to keep himself from relishing of the thunderous melodies that shook him to his very soul one moment, only to soothe him the next.

It seemed that Erik had been found after all, and at no effort from Raoul.

“Quite the musical prodigy he considers himself, eh?” André’s scoff interrupted the eerie silence that filled the room as all ears strained to catch every note displayed before them, and Raoul found himself wanting to glare the manager into silence. He realized that it was irrational, that it was exactly the effect that Erik desired to draw out in him, but it was an instinctive response. How that man dared to interrupt music as beautiful as this—this veritable masterpiece, created by such deft hands that as if were made for playing the piano—

Raoul shook his head. It did not do well to dwell on Erik. That way lay madness—that, he knew intimately. He needed to learn from Christine’s mistakes.

Erik, for all of his charm and talent, was no angel.

Meanwhile, Madame Giry levelled André with an admonishing look, the same look she would give her girls whenever one made a careless mistake that they should have been able to avoid. “Do not speak of him this way, monsieur,” she warned him. “You have not yet heard him sing.”

Firmin rolled his eyes in barely concealed derision. “Madame, with all due respect, no matter how well you think he may sing, we _do_ work in musical theatre; I highly doubt that his voice is something we have not heard already.”

Madame Giry sighed, and it was clear to Raoul that she was fighting the impulse to shake some sense into the shorter manager.

As if on command—and Raoul really would not put it past Erik to somehow be able to hear their conversation in the dining room even over the sound of his piano, the inventor that he was—Erik’s voice echoed throughout the house.

Raoul shivered when the voice reached his ears. He took a deep breath before letting it out slowly, trying to ground himself. Beside him, others seemed to be in similar predilections: Meg stared ahead with her mouth slightly agape, a mesmerized look in her eyes; the managers had clasped their hands as if in prayer, though to whom, Raoul could not tell; indeed, even Madame Giry and Nadir were not unaffected, for all that they had surely heard the voice a thousand times before.

Suddenly, as one, the people in the dining room shuddered, as though influenced by some invisible force. Erik's voice, the voice he had heard only once before, was as soft as velvet, as glorious as heaven itself, as bitter as the darkest night, and as haunting as the man himself. He was a tenor, from what Raoul could tell, although he was clearly capable of singing both tenor and baritone.

The voice was as dynamic as it was mesmerizing, as sensual as it was ghostly. It seemed to fill Raoul’s soul with fragrance, with grace, with unspeakable terror and indescribable bittersweetness. He sung with the strength of a thousand men and the gentleness of a flower.

It was, simply put, the voice of an angel.

Raoul glanced around him, even as he felt his lids fall shut almost all of their own. The entire table seemed mesmerized by Erik’s voice, which suddenly seemed to echo all around them. Raoul recalled with a start that Christine had once told him that Erik was a ventriloquist, and a rather fine one at that. Did he somehow do something to his voice to make them more responsive to it? He would not put it past the man.

Raoul’s eyelids closed as if for a second, but when he opened them again, it was as if half of the table had fallen asleep in their chairs. It had mainly been André and the ballet rats, but even Firmin looked to be on the verge of drifting into Morpheus’ welcoming arms. With a start, Raoul realized that he, too, had been affected by Erik’s song, and had been on the verge of dozing off.

Oddly, the voice had, this time, little effect on Nadir and Madame Giry, probably on the account of the fact that they were used to his voice. This would suggest that one could develop a partial immunity to Erik’s charms—after all, they were enraptured with his voice at first, along with all the rest, but they were able to resist his suggestive voice easily enough.

Raoul could not help but wonder how Christine, she who had heard Erik’s voice the most, would have reacted. Maybe she would have been wholly immune.

Now _that_ was a most curious thought.

Still, he had started himself out of this trance that Erik had concocted, so he must have been doing something right, at the very least.

Suddenly, the singing stopped. Raoul blinked rapidly, Erik’s charm losing its hold over him. Slowly, everyone awakened, and were greatly confused as to where they were.

“Well?” Madame Giry asked Firmin pointedly. “Do you still believe him to be but a mediocre singer?” It might have been simply Raoul’s imagination, or maybe he was projecting, but he thought that he heard a note of derision in the ballet mistress’ voice

"If it were not blasphemy to think such a thing," Firmin muttered slowly, his voice shaking slightly, "I would have claimed I had heard the voice of God here in this very room." André nodded in agreement.

Nadir regarded the shorter manager, before letting out a resigned sigh. “Erik has always been like that regarding his voice: quite arrogant, and with every right to be, too. I have, at some point heard it described as ‘the only sound that brings me true solace’ and ‘divine proof of God's presence on Earth’. There lies something in that.”

André nodded. “It was quite possibly the most beautiful sound I have ever heard,” he admitted with a grimace, almost as though it was causing him physical pain to say it.

There came a derisive scoff from the shadows. “You, _dear monsieur_ , know as much about music as Carlotta knows about acting,” said Erik’s disembodied voice, “so forgive me if I do not pay much heed to your words. Your place, as I recall having already told you, is in an office, not the arts.”

When Raoul chanced a glance in Firmin’s direction, he saw that the man had adopted a calculating look in his eyes, and something almost akin to greed flashed in his eyes. Raoul could well understand him: on one hand, there was a high possibility of strangling should he even _approach_ Erik, let alone let him participate more than he already had; on the other, the man had exquisite talent that a man as knowledgeable in music as Richard Firmin would be sad to see go to waste—Lord above, Raoul knew next to nothing about music, and even _he_ was saddened by the fact that, most probably, Erik’s voice would never see the light of day.

Firmin noticed Raoul’s gaze on him. He tilted his head. "Have you heard his voice before?" he addressed Raoul.

Raoul shrugged. “As much as you have, monsieur,” he said evasively.

“But you were with him in the cave,” Firmin prompted.

“Forgive me if I was concentrating more on Christine and her safety than on Erik’s voice.”

“Concentrating?” murmured a silky voice into Raoul’s ear. Raoul’s breath hitched. “You can _do_ that?”

“Are you done slaughtering the piano?” Raoul retorted. He would be damned if he let it show just how much Erik’s presence affected him. Erik would be _insufferable_.

The voice chuckled. “I would not expect a fop like _you_ to understand the inner workings of music,” it retorted condescendingly.

Raoul shook his head, then realized that it was futile, as Erik would not have seen the gesture. How _was_ he hearing them, anyway? Was he in this very room, hidden in the shadows? Raoul would not have put it past him. “A genius such as you should understand that ‘fop’, when used as many times as you have used it, loses any power it might have had.”

He heard something rustle behind him, and he could have sworn that he felt something brush against him, but when he turned to look, there was no one there.

 _Or if there is... well, then, it must be ghost_ , he bitterly recalled the words Christine had relayed to him.

Firmin cleared his throat. “As much as it pains me to say this,” he began, and did indeed look mightily uncomfortable, “if you were not such a great flight risk, and a danger to everyone around you, you would be a fine replacement for Piangi.”

“It would not do to forget that he is the very reason why we need a replacement for Piangi in the first place,” André reminded sharply.

To Raoul’s surprise, Erik did not rise to the bait. Instead, a dark chuckle reverberated around them. “As you yourself have undoubtedly experienced by now, Monsieur L’Expert de la Musique,” he said mockingly to Firmin, “people develop a tendency to fall asleep after hearing my voice.”

Firmin’s lips twitched into the barest resemblance of a smile. “I do see how that would pose a problem,” he agreed. “Still, the offer stands.”

André snorted derisively. “Then we are desperate indeed, to seek the help of such a monster!” he cried.

Evidently, that was the wrong thing to say. “You dare accuse _me_ of being a monster,” Erik’s voice was deceptively soft, barely louder than a whisper, and yet it carried around the room as though he had shouted, “when it is people like _you_ who condemn a man whose only crime had been the unfortunate circumstances of his birth.”

Nadir started. “Erik—”

Firmin held up a hand. “No, let him speak,” he said. His face was pale, but his voice remained steady.

If he could have seen Erik, Raoul was certain that he would have given Firmin a considerate look. As it was, Raoul settled for trying to read Erik’s tone. “Curious,” the aforesaid man murmured. “Very curious, brave fellow.” Raoul heard rustling behind him, and fought the impulse to turn around and look for the source of the sound, knowing that it would be an exercise in futility. “Tell me, dear monsieur,” the voice resumed, now coming from the spot just over Firmin’s shoulder, “how do you _stand_ to lower yourself to the standards of the likes of your fellow manager?”

“I have no idea what you mean.” Firmin’s voice remained firm, but Raoul could see minute hesitation in his expression.

If he could pick up on it, so could Erik.

Erik chuckled. “Oh, you do,” he told the manager, cutting short any protests that the man might have put up. “For some reason, you see fit to consort with this _filth_ ”—André shuddered, as though an invisible hand had touched him—“that would not have been able to tell a B minor from a flat F major.”

André opened his mouth to protest, then thought better of it. He crossed his arms, fury written all over his features, and attempted to fix Erik with a glare.

Firmin, in the meantime, stapled together his fingers, and opted for staring ahead, having already concluded that catching sight of the elusive Opera Ghost was nigh-impossible. “Monsieur Ghost,” he replied in a cold voice, “that is none of your business, but since you must know, my acquaintanceship with Monsieur André stretches far back, and he is a very accomplished businessman; our combined talents suit running an enterprise such as this, even one featuring a pest such as you.”

Erik did not reply for a long moment; so long, in fact, that Raoul began to fear that Firmin had crossed an invisible line. The very temperature in the room seemed to drop several degrees.

“A pest, you say?” Erik, when he did speak, sounded oddly entertained—almost as though Firmin’s words had amused him. “A pest? Then mayhap I should behave like one.”

“Erik…” Nadir began lowly.

Erik ignored him. “Mayhap I should finish the job that I had started.”

“Which would be?” André asked.

“The destruction of the Opera House,” Erik said simply. “If I cannot have it, neither can anyone else.”

At Erik’s words, shivers went down Raoul’s spine, and André’s face turned an ugly white; he stared at Raoul with doe-like eyes: glassy and panicked. He seemed speechless and lost and _torn_. Raoul almost felt pity him.

 _Almost_ being the imperative word.

Madame Giry cleared her throat. “Erik, there is no need for unpleasantries.”

“Unpleasantries?” Erik echoed maliciously. “I am but stating the truth.”

Raoul held up a hand. “No one is destroying anything,” he forestalled further discussions. “From my point of view, everyone more or less has what they desired, so let us simply leave it at that instead of purposedly antagonizing each other.”

The others considered Raoul’s words for a moment, before André finally nodded. “That is a reasonable request.”

“Indeed,” Firmin added.

“Erik?” Nadir called out. “What think you?”

But Erik had, once again, disappeared.

Raoul sighed in frustration. The man was infuriating at the best of times, and that was when he wasn’t pulling his vanishing tricks right and left.

Still, there was naught left to do but pick up the pieces.

 

₪ ₪ ₪

 

“Why, Firmin, do you let yourself be so easily manipulated by this… this _thing_?” André demanded.

There was a rustling of fabric, before Firmin spoke.

“What would you have me do?” he retorted. “We have both seen the consequences of opposing the man.”

“I am not telling you to wage a rebellion against him,” André whispered insistently. “I am asking why you actively offered him privileges he did not demand.”

“Because he is a superb singer, and we can hardly become _more_ entrenched in his presence than we already are,” Firmin explained simply. “We have lost our leading baritone—“

“Thanks to the man himself,” André muttered, but his fellow manager ignored him.

“—and I saw an opportunity to fill the vacancy with a man of, if not surpassing, Piangi’s calibre, even if he seems to sing tenor rather than baritone.”

“But—“

“Consider this, my dear André: if he is performing, or directing a performance, at least we can keep track of him. I would rather he be in charge of productions—which I have no doubt he would be in any case, albeit in a more roundabout way—than have him terrorizing our staff again. Besides,” he added with a little more cheer, “there is little chance that he would go about undermining himself, or disrupting his own productions.”

There was a long pause, before André sighed. “As much as it pains me to say it, I see your point. But you need not be so unendingly _compassionate_ to him, my friend,” André added sternly. “Compassion is a noble thing, but not all men are worthy of it.”

“Is it then not our duty to feel compassion towards the man who deserves it the least?” Firmin parried. “For who else will?”

André huffed. “Stronger men than I,” he muttered. “Firmin, you must understand that I do not wish to hunt him down for the sake of hunting him down, but we do have a responsibility to over four dozen other employees, and as much as the Ghost would have us believe otherwise, our friend from downstairs is not the centre of the world.”

Firmin sighed. “I know what a fine line I am—nay, _we_ are—treading,” he acknowledged.

André rubbed the bridge of his nose. “Then let us hope that we can maintain our balance. It would not do to tip over and fall.”

 

₪ ₪ ₪

 

That night, Raoul could not fall asleep. Erik’s voice, his melodies, was echoing in his head. Raoul remembered what Christine had once said. “If I go back, he’ll always be there in my head, singing and singing and singing, and I won’t be able to make it _stop_ ,” she had told him, on the verge of tears.

Now, it seemed that Raoul himself had found himself in this position, and yet, unlike Christine, he couldn’t bring himself to be frightened by it. Rather, he was drawn towards Erik’s voice—towards his entire person, really.

And _that_ … That did frighten him, for reasons he dared not think about.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments are like cookies—you can never have too many! Tell me what you thought!

**Author's Note:**

> Comments are basically love in word form.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [It’s the phantom of...the operaaaaaaa~](https://archiveofourown.org/works/13359138) by [AWalkingParadox](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AWalkingParadox/pseuds/AWalkingParadox)




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